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1 Lo—on th’inglorious tree Our God, the God of Glory, hangs; All steeped in blood is He, And pierced with pangs. 2 A felon’s death He dies, Uplift betwixt that robber-twain; Sweet Lamb for sacrifice, By sinners slain. 3 Pale, pale grows that dear brow, In death that drooping head declines; His parched lip moves and now His soul resigns— 4 His placid soul—oh! gaze On that wan face, that crown of thorn; Those eyes which death-films glaze, There look and mourn. 5 Mourn, and, with tears of blood, Weep till thine eyes in death grow dim, For Him unto the wood Thou nail’st, yea Him— 6 To whom, the mighty God, Washing in blood our sins away, Our everlasting laud We meekly pay. | The Cyber Hymnal #14158 |