Behold! a spotless Victim dies

Behold! a spotless Victim dies, My surety on the tree; The Lamb of God, the Sacrifice, He gave Himself for me.

Whatever curse was mine He bore; The wormwood and the gall, There, in that lone mysterious hour, My cup—He drained it all.

Lord Jesus! Thou, and none beside, Its bitterness could know, Nor other tell Thy joy's full tide That from that cup shall flow.

Thine is the joy, but yet 'tis mine. ' Tis ours as one with Thee; My joy flows from that grief of Thine; Thy death brings life to me!

And while the ages roll along, This shall my glory be; And this the new and endless song, Thy love to us—to me.