1 Behold, where, breathing love,
Our dying Master stands!
His weeping follow'rs, gath'ring round,
Receive his last commands.
2 From that mild Saviour's lips
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept, which he gave,
Became its author well.
3 Blest is the man, whose heart
Feels all another's pain;
To whom the supplicating eye
Was never rais'd in vain;
4 Whose breast expands with warmth,
A stranger's woe to feel,
And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
He wants the pow'r to heal.
5 To offices of love
His feet are never slow;
He views through mercy's melting eye
A brother in a foe.
6 Peace from his Father God,
My peace to him I give;
And, when he kneels before the throne,
His trembling soul shall live.
7 To him shall grace be shewn;
And mercy from above
Descend on those, who thus fulfill
The perfect law of love.