Object of All Our Knowledge Here

Object of all our know­ledge here

Our one de­sire

and hope be­low

Jesus

the Cru­ci­fied

draw near

And with Thy sad dis­ci­ples go:

Our thoughts and words to Thee are known

We com­mune of Thy­self alone.

How can it be

our rea­son cries

That God should leave His throne ab­ove?

Is it for man th’Im­mor­tal dies?

For man

who tram­ples on His love?

For man

who nailed Him to the tree?

O Love! O God! He dies for me!

Why then

if Thou for me hast died

Dost Thou not yet Thy­self im­part?

We hoped to feel Thy blood ap­plied

To find Thee ris­en in our heart

Redeemed from all ini­qui­ty

Saved

to the ut­most saved

thro’ Thee.

Have we not then be­lieved in vain

By Christ un­sanc­ti­fied

un­freed?

In us He is not ris’n again

We know not but He still is dead

No life

no right­eous­ness we have

Our hopes seem bur­ied in His grave.

Ah! Lord

if Thou in­deed art ours

If Thou for us hast burst the tomb

Visit us with Thy quick­en­ing pow­ers

Come to Thy mourn­ful fol­low­ers

come

Thyself to Thy weak mem­bers join

And fill us with the life di­vine.

Thee

the great Pro­phet sent from God

Mighty in deed and word we own;

Thou hast on some the grace be­stowed

Thy ris­ing in their hearts made known;

They pub­lish Thee to life re­stored

Attesting they have seen the Lord.

Alas for us

whose eyes are held!

Why can­not we our Sav­ior see?

With us Thou art yet still con­cealed:

O might we hear one word from Thee!

Speak

and to our un­belief re­prove

Our base­ness to mis­trust Thy love.

Fools as we are

and slow of heart

So back­ward to be­lieve the Word!

The pro­phets’ on­ly aim Thou art:

They sang the suf­fer­ings of their Lord

Thy life for ours a ran­som giv­en

Thy ris­ing to en­sure our Heav­en.

Ought not our Lord the death to die

And then the glo­ri­ous life to live?

To stoop; and then to go up on high?

The pain

and then the joy re­ceive?

His blood

the pur­chase price lay down

Endure the cross

and claim the crown?

Ought not the mem­bers all to pass

The way their Head had passed be­fore?

Thro’ suf­fer­ings per­fect­ed He was

The gar­ment dipped in blood He wore

That we with Him might die

and rise

And bear His na­ture to the skies!