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 Thus the Ransom of our peace Cruel stripes are tearing, As the streams that flow therefrom Fully are declaring.

After passed He through the street As the morn grew older: And the heavy bitter Cross Bare He on His Shoulder: Thronged the windows and the doors Many a rude beholder; But He found no comforter There, and no upholder.

Him, in open sight of men Manifestly shaming, To the wind and cold they bare, Utmost insults framing: Guiltless, on the Cross they lift With transgressors naming, Him, as midmost of the three, Chief of all proclaiming.

On the wood His Arms are stretched, And His Hands are riven: Through the tender Flesh of Mighty nails are driven;