Thou gav’st the hand its subtle power,
But with the hand, O Lord of grace,
Upon Thy pallid, careworn face,
They smote Thee in that evil hour.
III
They nailed the Lord of Glory high,
And while He hung in awful pain,
The temple veil was rent in twain,
The sun refused to see Him die.
Ἀντὶ ἀγαθῶν ὧν ἐποίησας, Χριστέ