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 Priests and Scribes upon His Head Foul reproaches heaping: Who might see the Spotless Lamb, And refrain from weeping?

Pilate strives to free the From the bands that tie Him; But the voices of the Jews More and more defy him; And the tumult waxes still Loud and louder nigh him: And the people's fiercer cry Thunders,—"Crucify Him!"

With the soldiers, straitly bound, Forth the fareth: Over all His holy Form Bleeding Wounds He beareth; He a Crown of woven thorns, King of Glory, weareth: And each one, with bended knee, Fresher taunts prepareth.

They Thy mild and tender Flesh, O Redeemer, baring, To the column bind Thee fast For the scourge preparing: