And sharpest pricks of that mock thorny Crown;
The insults, blows, and scorn,
That must be meekly borne,
These weigh the Son of Man’s meek Spirit down.
He sees with vision clear,
And shrinks with human fear,
The Cross with curse o’erlaid and angry doom;
The hours of racking pain
He must, nailed there, sustain,
While lingering death life’s marrow shall consume.