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166

John Brownlie

8,8,8,5

Oh, the Cross, the Saviour dying,

Wounded sore, and faint, and sighing,

Bowed beneath the burden lying

On His spotless soul.

'Tis thy load He falters under;

Speaks not heaven in wrathful thunder?

Earth! behold the sight, and wonder,

Love has borne the rod.

Canst thou love the sin that bound Him,

Threw the robe of scorn around Him,

Mocking bowed the knee, and crowned Him

With the cruel thorn?

Jesus, at Thy feet relenting,

Bring I all my guilt repenting,

All my cruel sin lamenting:

Christ, my sin forgive!

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