O grace divine! the Savior shed
His life-blood on the cursed tree;
Bowed on the cross His blessed head,
And died to make the guilty free.
Through suffering there, beneath His feet
He trod the fierce avenger down:
There power itself and weakness meet,
Emblem of each, you thorny crown.
Fruit of the curse, the tangled thorn,
Showed that He bore its deadly sting;
The crown, ‘mid Israel’s cruel scorn,
Marked Him as earth’s anointed King.
O blessed hour! when all the earth
Its rightful Heir shall yet receive;
When every tongue shall own His worth,
And all creation cease to grieve.
Thou dearest Savior! Thou alone
Canst give Thy weary people rest;
And, Lord, till Thou art on the throne,
This, groaning earth can ne’er be blest.