How marvelous, how wonderful! And my song shall ever be: How marvelous, how wonderful is my Savior’s love for me.
I stand amazed in the presence of Jesus the Nazarene, and wonder how he could love me, a sinner, condemned, unclean.
For me it was in the garden he prayed: “Not my will but thine.” He had no tears for his own griefs, but sweat drops of blood for mine.
He took my sins and my sorrows, he made them his very own; he bore the burden to Calvary, and suffered and died alone.
When with the ransomed in glory his face I at last shall see, ‘twill be my joy through the ages to sing of his love for me.
(Charles H. Gabriel 1856-1932)
To mock your reign, O dearest Lord, they made a crown of thorns; set you with taunts along that road from which no one returns. They could not know, as we do now, how glorious is that crown; that thorns would flower upon your brow, your sorrows heal our own.
To mock acclaim, O gracious Lord, they snatched a purple cloak; your passion turned, for all they cared, into a soldier’s joke. They could not know, as we do now, that though we merit blame, you will your robe of mercy throw around our naked shame.
A sceptered reed, O patient Lord, they thrust into your hand, and acted out their grim charade to its appointed end. They could not know, as we do now, though empires rise and fall, your kingdom shall not cease to grow till love embraces all.
(Fred Pratt Green 1903-2000)
O Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God, I love the holy Lamb of God! O wash me in his precious blood – my Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.
Your only Son, no sin to hide, but you have sent him from your side, to walk upon this guilty sod, and to become the Lamb of God.
Your gift of love, they crucified, they laughed and scorned him as he died, the humble King they named a fraud and sacrificed the Lamb of God.
I was so lost, I should have died, but you have brought me to his side, to be led by your staff and rod, and to be called a lamb of God
(Twila Paris 1958-)
O sacred head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down, now scornfully surrounded with thorns, thine only crown; O sacred head, what glory, what bliss till now was thine; yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call thee mine.
What thou, my Lord, hast suffered was all for sinner’s gain; mine, mine was the transgression, but thine the deadly pain. Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ‘Tis I deserve thy place; look on me with thy favor, and grant to me thy grace.
What language shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest friend, for this thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end? O make me thine forever; and should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee.
(Bernard of Clairvaux, 12th century)
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