‘Twas I that shed the sacred Blood,
I nailed him to the Tree,
I crucified the Christ of God;
I joined the mockery.
And of that shouting mutitude
I feel that I am one;
And in that din of voices rude
I recognize my own.
Around the Cross the throng I see
That mock the Sufferer’s groan
Yet still my voice it seems to be,
As if I mocked alone.
In evil long I took delight
Unawed by shame or fear;
Till a new object struck my sight
And stopped my wild career.
I saw one hanging on a tree
In agonies and blood;
Who fixed his languid eyes on me
As near his cross I stood.
Sure never till my latest breath
Can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with his death
Though not a word he spoke
My conscience felt and owned the guilt
And plunged me in despair;
I saw my sins his blood had spilt
And helped to nail him there.
Alas, I knew not what I did
But now my tears are vain;
Where shall my trembling sould be hid?
For I the Lord have slain.
A second look he gave which said
“I freely all forgive;
This blood is for thy ransom paid
I died that thou mayest live.”
Thus while his death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue;
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.
With pleasing grief and mournful joy
My spirit now is filled;
That I should such a life destroy
Yet live by him I killed.