Aspice ut Verbum Patris a supremo

See from on high, array’d in truth and grace,
The Father’s Word descend!
Burning to heal the wounds of Adam’s race,
And our long evils end!

Pitying the miseries which with the Fall
In Paradise began.
Prostrate upon the earth, the Lord of all
Entreats for ruin’d man.

Oh, bitter then was our Redeemer’s lot,
While whelm’d in griefs unknown:
“Father,” He cries, “remove this cup; yet not
My will, but thine be done.”

While, a dread anguish pressing down his heart,
He faints upon the ground;
And from each bursting pore the blood-drops start,
Moistening the earth around.

But quickly, from high Heav’n, an angel came,
To soothe the Saviour’s woes;
And, strength returning to his languid frame,
Up from the earth He rose.

Praise to the Father; praise, O Son! to Thee,
To whom a name is given
Above all names; praise to the Spirit be,
From all in earth and Heaven.