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 Look on the Head, with such a Crown

Of bitter thorns surrounded;

Look on the Blood that trickles down

The Feet and Hands thus wounded!

Let that frame thy tears engage,

Marking how Judæa's rage

And malice hath abounded.

But though upon Him many a smart

Its bitterness expendeth,

Yet more,—oh how much more!—His Heart

Man's thankless spirit rendeth!

On the Cross, bewailed by none,

Mark, O man, how Mary's Son

His life of sorrow endeth.

None ever bare such grief, alas,

None ever such affliction,

As when Judæa brought to pass

His bitter crucifixion:

He, that we might dwell on high,

Bare the pangs that made Him die

In oft-renewed infliction.

O therefore Satan's wiles repel,

And yield not to temptation!

Think on the woes that befell

In working thy salvation!