O'erwhelm'd in depths of woe,
Upon the tree of scorn,
Hangs the redeemer of mankind,
With racking anguish torn.

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
His spirit takes its flight;
That cry, it smote his Mother's heart
And wrapt her soul in night.

The sun withdraws its light
The midday heav'ns grow pale;
The moon, the stars, the universe,
Their Maker's death bewail.

Come, fall before his Cross
Who shed for us his blood;
Who died, the victim of pure love,
To make us sons of God.

Jesu, all praise to thee,
Our joy and endless rest;
Be thou our guide while pilgrims here,
Our crown amid the blest.