Hymn for Good Friday

O'erwhelm'd in depths of woe,

With racking anguish torn,

Behold the Saviour of mankind

Upon the tree of scorn.

See how the nails those hands

And feet so tender rend;

See down His face and neck and breast

His sacred blood descend.

Hark with what awful cry

He yields His parting breath!

That cry it steeps His mother's soul

As in a swoon of death.

The sun withdraws his beam,

The mid-day heav'ns grow pale,

The moon, the stars, the universe,

Their Maker's death bewail.

Shall man alone be mute,

Amidst adoring spheres?

Come, old and young, come, rich and poor,

And bathe those feet in tears

Come kneel before His Cross,

Who shed for us His blood;

Who died the victim of pure love,

To make us sons of God.