In Pilate's hall, by scornful Pharisees
Surrounded, and by dark-browed Roman bands,
Before the Procurator's footstool stands
The Son of God, the glorious Prince of Peace.
Alone he stands, his followers all have fled;
In mockery o'er his limbs a robe is thrown
Of regal purple; and a thorny crown
Appears in scorn upon his sacred head.
But calm he spake: From God my power proceeds,
Without his will thou canst not harm a hair
Upon my brow; then patient will I bear
The unrighteous punishment of holy deeds.
I am a king, but not with mortal state.
He said, and humbly died, the greatest of the great.
And oh, what beams of dignity and love
Flowed o'er his sacred features, as he stood
Calmly amid the foes who sought his blood,
His eyes upturning to his home above!
The haughty Judge with admiration gazed,
And spoke him guiltless; but the frantic crowd
Demand their victim's death with clamours loud
As the fierce Scribes their stormy passions raised.
Follower of Jesus! learn of him to bear
Unmoved the fury of victorious foes;
Though shame environ thee, and anguish close
Thy dying eyes, yet shrink not; thou dost share
Thy Master's sufferings; thou shalt share his rest;
Oh learn of him to live, to die, and to be blest.