Soul of Jesus, sick to death !
Thy Blood and prayer together plead ;
My sins have bowed Thee to the ground,
As the storm bows the feeble reed.

Midnight and still the oppressive load
Upon Thy tortured Heart doth lie ;
Still the abhorred procession winds
Before Thy spirit’s quailing eye.

Deep waters have come in, Lord !
All darkly on Thy Human Soul ;
And clouds of supernatural gloom
Around Thee are allowed to roll.

The weight of the eternal wrath
Drives over Thee with pressure dread ;
And, forced upon the olive roots,
In deathlike sadness droops Thy Head.

Thy spirit weighs the sins of men ;
Thy science fathoms all their guilt ;
Thou sickenest heavily at Thy Heart,
And the pores open, Blood is spilt.

And Thou hast struggled with it, Lord I
Even to the limit of Thy strength,
While hours, whose minutes were as years,
Slowly fulfilled their weary length.

And Thou hast shuddered at each act,
And shrunk with an astonished fear,
As if Thou couldst not bear to see
The loathsomeness of sin so near.

Sin and the Father’s Anger ! they
Have made Thy lower nature faint ;
All save the love within Thy Heart,
Seemed for the moment to be spent.