Still, still upon the cross!
Yet is it writ that Thou,
With thorn-pierc'd brow,
Amid the jeer of mocking lips, the toss
Of mocking heads, a thief on either side,
Wert crucified;
Nailed to the awful tree-
Thy Throne of agony-
Thou, Son of God! Thy blood, thy life didst give
That we might live.

Nay, Lord, can this be so
And earth not know?
Thy star, whose fields Thy feet divine once trod
Fresh from the fields of God;
Thy natal star, whose skies
Have quickened to Thine eyes,
While thrilled through boundless space
The worlds to greet Thy face
From this, dear Lord- one of the least thereof,
Great only in Thy love.
In Thy love, only, great!
O Christ compassionate,
Pity us, deaf and blind,
Frail humankind!
Pity us, loving still-
Though all in vain
Seemeth Thy price is pain;
Pity us, loving still-
Though still with sin, and shame, and strife, and hate,
We thwart Thy will.

Still, still upon the cross!
For lo! our every evil is a thorn
Wherewith our hands adorn
Thy bleeding brow; each brother-help denied
A spear-thrust in Thy side,
Daily betray we Thee for gold dross:
Through the long centuries
Unheeding, and still heeding not Thy cries,
So hold we Thee, O Savior, crucified-
Still, still on the cross.