LORD, I would stand with thoughtful eye Beneath Thy fatal tree, And see Thee bleed, and see Thee die, And think, ‘What love to me!’
Dwell on the sight, my stony heart, Till every pulse within, Shall into contrite sorrow start, And hate the thought of sin.
Didst Thou for me, my Saviour, brave The scorn and scourge and gall, The nails, the thorns, the spear, the grave, While I deserved them all?
O help me some return to make, To yield my heart to Thee, And do and suffer for Thy sake, As Thou hast done for me.
Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847