Lo, the marks upon Him there—
Why so mangled, rent, and torn?
Why those wounds upon His brow—
Wounds of rugged, tangled thorn?
Pierced feet, head, hands, and side,
Tell me that my Lord has died.
Why within the tomb enclosed,
Lifeless, silent, still, and dead,
Bound with linen clothes, and laid
With the napkin 'bout His head?
Tomb, and death, and napkin say,
Love, pure love, has had its way.
Why uprising from the grave,
Spite of all that man can do;
Taking now the life He gave,
While the angels wondering view?
Death defeated, empty grave,
Tell me Jesus now can save.
Why ascending up on high,
Victor over every foe,
Prince of life, no more to die,
Endless blessings to bestow?
This, that blest ascension proves—
Christ in glory ever loves.