Good Friday Hymns

When I Survey the Wondrous Cross

Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted

Stricken, smitten, and afflicted, See Him dying on the tree! ’Tis the Christ by man rejected;

Yes, my soul, ’tis He, ’tis He! ’Tis the long expected Prophet, David’s Son, yet David’s Lord; By His Son God now has spoken: ‘Tis the true and faithful Word.

Tell me, ye who hear Him groaning, Was there ever grief like His? Friends through fear His cause disowning, Foes insulting His distress;

Many hands were raised to wound Him, None would interpose to save; But the deepest stroke that pierced Him Was the stroke that Justice gave.

Ye who think of sin but lightly, Nor suppose the evil great, Here may view its nature rightly, Here its guilt may estimate.

Mark the sacrifice appointed, See Who bears the awful load; ’Tis the Word, the Lord’s Anointed, Son of Man and Son of God.

Here we have a firm foundation, Here the refuge of the lost; Christ’s the Rock of our salvation, His the Name of which we boast.

Lamb of God for sinners wounded, Sacrifice to cancel guilt! None shall ever be confounded Who on Him their hope have built. Ah, Holy Jesus

Ah, holy Jesus, how hast Thou offended, That man to judge Thee hath in hate pretended? By foes derided, by Thine own rejected, O most afflicted!

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon Thee? Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone Thee! 'Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied Thee; I crucified Thee.

Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered; The slave hath sinned, and the Son hath suffered. For man’s atonement, while he nothing heedeth, God intercedeth.

For me, kind Jesus, was Thine incarnation, Thy mortal sorrow, and Thy life's oblation: Thy death of anguish and Thy bitter passion, For my salvation.

Therefore, kind Jesus, since I cannot pay Thee, I do adore Thee, and will ever pray Thee, Think on Thy pity and Thy love unswerving, Not my deserving.

O Sacred Head Now Wounded

O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down; Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown; How pale Thou art with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn! How does that visage languish, which once was bright as morn!

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered was all for sinners’ gain; Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place; Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest Friend, For this, Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end? O make me Thine forever; And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.