150
C. M.
The man of sorrows.
A pilgrim through this lonely world,
The blessed Saviour passed;
A mourner all his life was he,
A dying Lamb at last.
2 That tender heart which felt for all,
For us its life-blood gave;
It found on earth no resting-place,
Save only in the grave!
3 Such was our Lord: and shall we fear
The cross with all its scorn?
Or love a faithless, evil world,
That wreathed his brow with thorn?
4 No; facing all its frowns or smiles,
Like him, obedient still,
We homeward press, through storm or calm,
To Zion’s blessed hill.
Bonar.