And suffer all this pain for us.
’Twas I deserved, O dearest Lord,
My flesh should be with scourging torn,
My little hands be bound with cord,
My head be crown’d with prickly thorn.
And now what can I do for him
Who suffer’d all this pain for me?
Whene’er I feel or hear of sin,
I’ll think, O dearest Lord, of thee.
Nor shall my hand in anger strike,