by G. W. Hale
On Calvary's hill, I see Him there,
With wounded hands and side;
And as I gaze, my eyes are dim
With tears I cannot hide.
For sins of mine, the Son of God,
In whom was found no guile,
Is crowned with thorns, and crucified
While men His name revile.
Forsaken now by those He loved,
Alone He suffers there,
With sorrow weighed down, and grief
Almost too much to bear.
I see no look of bitterness,
'Tis pity fills his eyes,
As from His lips a last prayer falls
Ere of His wounds He dies.
His head is bowed, but lo, He cries,
His love triumphant, true:
"Forgive them, Father, Oh forgive,
They know not what they do."
Amazing love, beyond compare;
The men He came to save
Demand of Him a cruel death -
Yet them, He all forgave.
Beyond that Cross of Shame, I see
A garden bright and fair,
And standing near an empty tomb
A risen Saviour there.
No longer thorns His brow adorn,
No dying form I see;
A conqueror of sin and death
Is He, and I am free!
This poem was found in the March 1951 issue of Progress, the monthly magazine of the Romford Congregational Church.