This man receiveth sinners; (hear,
‘Tis calumny most sweet!)
He healed their wounds, and drawing near,
Amidst them took His seat.
This man receiveth sinners—yea,
For such He came to die;
Beneath the stroke of death He lay,
This Lamb of God most high!
He came the smoking flax to light,
To bind the bruised reed;
‘Twas such in Him found great delight—
Yea, all that felt their need.
‘Twas heaven on earth to one above,
Who came her God to meet;
When with her tears of grateful love
She bathed His way-worn feet.
His ear her speechless love could hear—
That adoration deep;
His eye could trace the falling tear
For Him, in His deep sleep.
The alabaster box she takes—
There’s golden oil within—
It o’er His sinless head she breaks,
So soon to bear her sin.
He talked of grace (that love in which
All find a refuge sweet),
While she her tresses dark and rich,
Wrapt round His wearied feet.
His words had healed the heart’s deep sore,
He turned around to greet;
She lingered yet a moment more
To kiss Emmanuel’s feet.
My soul now flutters like the clove,
She mounting on the breeze,
And marvels if the realms above
Can vie the scene she sees!
‘Tis in Thyself I too delight,
Though viler far than she;
Thou art my Life—my Surety—Light;
I’m found and lost in Thee.
‘Tis in Thyself I find my all—
On thee my heart is bent;
My guilt upon Thy head did fall—
Thou Rock of Ages rent.
‘Tis still Thyself—my Star in night,
I lift mine eyes to see;
Thou art my goal, my glory bright,
I soon shall like Thee be.