Ye that pass by, behold the man

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General information

Ye that pass by, behold the man is a hymn by Charles Wesley. It was first published in 18 stanzas of 4 lines on pages 22-24 of John and Charles Wesley's Hymns and Sacred Poems (1742), where it is titled 'A Passion-Hymn'.

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Text and translations

English.png English text

YE that pass by, behold the Man!
The Man of Griefs condemn'd for You!
The Lamb of God for Sinners slain
Weeping to Calvary pursue.

See how His Back the Scourges tear,
While to the bloody Pillar bound!
The Ploughers make long Furrow there,
Till all His Body is one Wound.

The Abjects spit upon That Face
Which Prophets wish'd in vain to see,
On which the Angels lov'd to gaze,
Pleas'd with His Milder Majesty.

Ador'd by Angels, mock'd by Men,
Speechless the Form of Guilt he wears,
Revil'd He answers not again,
But meekly all their Insults bears.

Nor can He thus their Hate asswage,
His Innocence to Death pursu'd,
Must fully glut their utmost Rage;
Hark! how they clamour for His Blood!

To us our own Barabbas give;
Away with Him (they loudly cry)
Away with Him, not fit to live,
The vile Seducer crucify!

Against his God the Creature calls:
Accus'd and sentenc'd by the Breath
Himself inspir'd, their Maker falls;
The Lord of life is doom'd to Death.

His sacred limbs they stretch, they tear,
With Nails they fasten to the Wood;
His sacred Limbs - expos'd, and bare,
Or only cover'd with his Blood!

See there! His Temples crown'd with thorns!
His bleeding Hands extended wide,
His streaming Feet, transfix'd and torn!
The Fountain gushing from His Side!

Where is the King of Glory now!
The Everlasting Son of God?
Th'Immortal hangs His languid Brow,
Th' Almighty faints beneath His Load!

Beneath my load he faints, and dies:
I fill'd His Soul with Pangs unknown;
I caus'd those Mortal Groans, and Cries,
I kill'd the Father's Only Son.

Oh! Thou dear suffering Son of God,
How doth thy Heart to Sinners move!
Help me to catch Thy precious Blood,
Help me to taste thy dying love.

Give me to feel Thy Agonies,
One drop of Thy sad Cup afford:
I fain with thee wou'd simpathise,
And share the suff'rings of my Lord.

The earth could to her Centre quake,
Convuls'd, while her Creator died;
O let my inmost Nature shake,
And bow with Jesus Crucified.

At Thy last Gasp the Graves display'd
Their Horrors to the upper Skies;
Oh! that my Soul might burst the Shade,
And quickned by Thy Death, arise.

The Rocks could feel Thy powerful Death,
And tremble, and asunder part:
O rend with Thy Expiring Breath
The harder Marble of my Heart.

My Stony Heart Thy Voice shall rent,
Thou wilt, I trust, the Veil remove,
My inmost Bowels shall resent
The Yearnings of Thy Dying Love.

Thy Grace I surely shall receive,
Thy Death hath bought the Grace for me:
This is my whole Desire, To live;
To live, and then to die in Thee.

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