1 Come hither, ye that fain would know
The exceeding sinfulness of sin;
Come see a scene of matchless woe,
And tell me what it all can mean.

2 Behold the darling Son of God
Bowed down with horror to the ground,
Wrung at the heart, and sweating blood,
His eyes in tears of sorrow drowned!

3 See how the Victim panting lies,
His soul with bitter anguish pressed;
He sighs, he faints, he groans, he cries,
Dismayed, dejected, shocked, distressed.

4 What pangs are these that tear his heart?
What burden’s this that’s on him laid?
What means this agony of smart?
What makes our Maker hang his head?

5 ’Tis Justice, with its iron rod,
Inflicting strokes of wrath divine;
’Tis the avenging hand of God,
Incensed at all your sins and mine.

6 Deep in his breast our names were cut;
He undertook our desperate debt;
Such loads of guilt were on him put,
He could but just sustain the weight.

7 Then let us not ourselves deceive;
For, while of sin we lightly deem,
Whatever notions we may have,
Indeed we are not much like him.