Gloriam sacrae celebremus omnes

The glories of that sacred Winding Sheet
Let every tongue record;
Which from the Cross receiv’d, with honour meet,
The body of the Lord.

O dear Memorial! on which we see,
In bloody stains impress’d,
The form, sublime in awful majesty,
Of our Redeemer blest.

How doth the grievous sight of thee recall
Those dying throes to mind,
Which Christ, compassionating Adam’s fall,
Endur’d for lost mankind!

His wounded side, his hands and feet pierc’d through,
Mirror’d in thee appear;
His lacerated limbs, his gory brow,
And thorn-entangled hair.

Ah! who beholding these sad images,
Can the big tears controul?
Can check the throbs of swelling grief that rise
Up from his inmost soul?

Jesu! my sin it was that laid Thee low,
And through thy death I live;
That life, which to thy sufferings I owe,
Henceforth to Thee I give.

Glory to Him, who, to redeem us, bore
Such bitter dying pains;
Who with th’ eternal Father evermore,
And Holy Spirit, reigns.