1 Come let us all, who here have seen,
And tasted of our Saviour's grace,
From his bless'd table to his cross,
In thought, his weary footsteps trace
Into the garden first he goes,
Where mortal fears beset him round;
Sin's pressing weight o'erwhelms his soul
And sinks his body to the ground.
2 Here, prostrate as he lies, he groans,
Pouring out Pray'rs with fervent Cries,
'Till he sweats drops of Blood, to mix
With Floods that issue from his Eyes.
Yet are his Sorrows but begun;
By one Disciple He's betray'd
Another Him with Oaths denies,
The rest all run like sheep afraid.
3 Falsly accus'd, He's doom'd to die;
Loaded with blasphemy and scorn,
He's rudely buffered and bound,
His naked flesh with scourges torn.
His temples wear a wreath of thorns,
Vile Spitting his pure face profanes;
His weary shoulders bear a cross,
On which He suffers mortal pains.
4 Between two thieves He ling'ring dies.
While thousand tortures on Him meet:
His heart's dissolv'd within; his blood
flows out in streams from hands and feet.
These streams, join'd with the other flood
That gush'd out from his wounded side,
Compose a sovereign bath, wherein
The leprous Soul is purify'd.