Classic Poem

I hail thee, thou most holy Man.
To pardon, heal and quicken,
How didst thou suffer thrall and ban,
How was thy Body stricken!
Low all my soul in worship bows
To thee, my Saviour's Side;
Thou noble Fount, whence ever flows
His Blood to wash the sins of those
For whom their Saviour died.

Lord Jesus, see, I cling to thee,
Vouchsafe me thy salvation;
Save in thy wounded Side, for me
There rests no consolation.
O precious Wound, be thou adored,
Thou open door of grace,
Wherefrom the blood and water poured,
To pay our price from mercy's hoard,
And banish our disgrace.

My heart refreshed is like to burst,
Filled from thy savourous flagon;
Thy torrent heals my aching thirst,
The poison of the dragon.
Open thy gates, thou darling Wound,
And let my heart, too bold,
Be swept away, and wholly drowned,
As in a flood which breaks its bound:
So shall I be consoled.

Craving to touch the saving flood,
My mouth looks up with yearning;
Through marrow, sinew, bone and blood,
The life-sap runneth burning.
Ah, sweet and sweeter art thou yet,
Lord Jesus, to my heart;
Who loves thee well shall well forget
The sting of death, and even sweet
Find death's own bitter smart.

Conceal me, Wound; within thy cave
Locked fast, no thing shall harm me;
There let me nestle close and safe,
There soothe my soul and warm me.
When I shall feel death's cold distress,
And when the hellish beast
Against my soul and me shall press,
Then let me, in thy faithfulness,
Quietly, Saviour, rest.