317 O world, behold! upon the tree

1 O world, behold! upon the tree Life is hanging now for thee! Thy Savior yields His dying breath. The mighty Prince of glory now For thee doth unresisting bow To cruel stripes, to scorn and death. 2 Alas! my Savior, who could dare Bid Thee such bitter anguish bear? What evil heart ill-treat Thee thus? For Thou art good, hast wronged none, As we and ours too oft have done; Thou hast not sinned, dear Lord, like us. 3 My grievous sins, that number more Than yonder sands upon the shore, Have brought to pass this agony: 'Tis I have caused the floods of woe, That now Thy soul in death o'erflow, And those sad hearts that watch by Thee. 4 'Tis I to whom these pains belong; 'Tis I should suffer for my wrong, Bound hand and foot in heavy chains: Thy scourge, Thy fetters, whatsoe'er Thou bearest, 'tis my soul should bear, For I have well deserved such pains. 5 Lord, from Thy sorrows I will learn How fiercely wrath divine doth burn, How terribly its thunders roll; How sorely this our loving God Can smite with His avenging rod; How deep His floods o'erwhelm the soul. 6 And I will nail me to Thy cross, And learn to count all things but dross, Wherein the flesh doth pleasure take; Whate'er is hateful in Thine eyes, With all the strength that in me lies, Will I cast from me and forsake. 7 Thy heavy groans, Thy bitter sighs, The tears that from Thy dying eyes Were shed when Thou wast sore oppressed, Shall be with me, when at the last Myself on Thee I wholly cast, And enter with Thee into rest.