Hymns on the Lord's Supper, 141

Happy the souls that follow'd Thee,
Lamenting, to the' accursed wood;
Happy, who underneath the tree
Unmovable in sorrow stood.

When Nature felt the deadly blow
By which Thy soul to God was driven,
Which shook with sympathetic woe
Temple, and graves, and earth, and heaven,

O what a time for offering up
Their souls upon Thy sacrifice!
Who would not with Thy burden stoop,
And bow the head when Jesus dies?

Not all the days before or since
An hour so solemn could afford,
For suffering with our bleeding Prince,
For dying with our slaughter'd Lord.

Yet in this ordinance Divine
We still the sacred load may bear;
And now we in Thy offering join,
Thy sacramental passion share.

We cast our sins into that fire
Which did Thy sacrifice consume,
And every base and vain desire
To daily crucifixion doom.

Thou art with all Thy members here,
In this tremendous mystery
We jointly before God appear,
To offer up ourselves with Thee.

True followers of our bleeding Lamb.
Now on Thy daily cross we die,
And, mingled in a common flame,
Ascend triumphant to the sky.