Thomas with the Ten

O

en­ter then the te­mple

when

The Lord still pass­es in;

The one with­out was first to doubt

The bless­ing last to win.

O cruel! must thy hand be thrust

Thy source of life so near;

Thy Lord as­sail

hard as the nail

Unkinder than the spear?

Yet

see

He comes with peace again

With on­ly peace to all;

No breath­ing now up­on the brow

Where soon the fire shall fall:

Scarce will that eye His wounds des­cry

No hand He now ex­tends;

How should that flesh be probed afresh

Here

in the house of friends?

So now

thy Lord

thy God con­fess

Believe and wor­ship

too

And first adore—yet they have more

Who deem the wit­ness true.

Thy faith has been but what was seen—

Blest they who still be­lieve

What eye nor ear shall see or hear

Nor heart of man con­ceive!

O

on my bo­dy

not on Thine

Lord Je­sus

let me see

The bless­èd marks of love di­vine

Which Thou hast borne for me;

Compunctions sweet on hands and feet

The pierced

the op­en heart;

Or e’er

without one faith­less doubt

I see Thou as Thou art.