Aspice infami Deus ipse ligno

See! where in shame the God of glory hangs,
All bath’d in his own blood:
See! how the nails pierce with a thousand pangs
Those hands so good.

Th’ All Holy, as a minister of ill,
Betwixt two thieves they place;
Oh, deed unjust! yet such the cruel will
Of Israel’s race.

Pale grows his face, and fix’d his languid eye;
His wearied head He bends;
And rich in merits, forth with one loud cry
His Spirit sends.

O heart more hard than iron! not to weep
At this; thy sin it was
That wrought his death; of all these torments deep
Thou art the cause.

Praise, honour, glory be through endless time
To th’ everlasting God;
Who wip’d away our deadly stains of crime
In his own Blood.