102
MEDIÆVAL HYMNS.
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 Christ
