CCXVII. CHRIST'S Prayer for his Enemies.

A LOUD I sing the wond'rous Grace,
Christ to his Murd'rers bare;
Which made the tort'ring Cross its Throne,
And hung its Trophics there.

Father, forgive, his Mercy cried
With his expiring Breath,
And drew eternal Blessings down
On those, who wrought his Death.

Then may I hope for Pardon too,
Tho' I have pierc'd the Lord;
Blest Jesus, in my Favour speak
That all-prevailing Word.

I knew not what my Madness did,
While I remain'd thy Foe:
Soon as I saw the Wounds were Thine,
My Tears began to flow.

Melted by Goodness so divine,
I would its Footsteps trace;
And, while beneath thy Cross I stand,
My fiercest Foes embrace.