A Purple Robe

A pur­ple robe

a crown of thorn

A reed in His right hand;

Before the sold­iers’ spite and scorn

I see my Sav­ior stand.

He bears be­tween the Ro­man guard

The weight of all our woe;

A stum­bling fig­ure

bowed and scarred

I see my Sav­ior go.