Oh, what is thy Beloved?
They oft inquire of me;
And what in my Beloved
So passing fair I see?
Is it the heavenly splendor
In which He shines above?
His riches and dominions,
That won my heart's best love?
Oh no! 'Tis not His glories;
He's worthy of them all!
'Tis not the throne and scepter
Before which angels fall!
I view with heart exulting
Each crown His head adorns;
But, oh, He looks most lovely,
Wearing His crown of thorns.
I'm glad to see His raiment,
Than snow more spotless white,
Refulgent with its brightness,
More dazzling than the light;
But more surpassing lovely
His form appears to me,
When stripp'd, and scourg'd, and bleeding,
He hung upon the tree.
With warmest adoration
I see Him on the throne,
And join the loud hosannas
That His high virtues own;
But, oh, most blessed Jesus,
I must confess to Thee,
More than the throne of glory
I love that sacred tree.
I joy to see the diadems
Upon Thy royal brow;
The states and power, and majesty,
In which Thou sittest now;
But 'tis Thyself, Lord Jesus,
Makes heaven seem heaven to me-
Thyself, as first I knew Thee,
Uplifted on the tree.
Though higher than the highest,
Most mighty King Thou art;
Thy grace, and not Thy greatness,
First touch'd my rebel heart;
Thy sword, it might have slain me,
Thine arrows drunk my blood;
But 'twas Thy cross subdu'd me,
And won my heart to God,
Thy scepter rules creation,
Thy wounded hand rules me;
All bow before Thy footstool,
I but the nail prints see
Aloud they sound Thy titles,
Thou Lord of lords most high;
One thrilling thought absorbs me -
This Lord for ME did die!
Oh, this is my Beloved,
There's none so fair as He;
The chief among ten thousand,
He's all in all to me:
My heart it breaks with longing
To dwell with Him above,
Who woo'd me first, and won me
By His sweet dying love.