The Man of Sorrows

He hath no form nor comeliness
Nor beauty in our sinful eyes;
We look upon him and despise
A visage marred by long distress.

A man of sorrows, known to grief,
We would not take him into grace;
We hid our faces from his face,
And when he pleaded we were deaf.

We thought him stricken of the Lord;
We judged him worthy taunt and blow;
Yet surely he had borne our woe
And been because of us abhorred.

For our transgression was He slain,
And bruised for our iniquity;
Because of Him we do not die,
Nor suffer any stripe of pain.

Like foolish sheep we went astray,
We wandered each his wayward path;
But He alone endured the wrath
Of Him who hates the sinner's way.

Afflicted, smitten, bleeding, torn,
He opened not his mouth to weep,
But patient suffered like the sheep
Who moaneth not when he is shorn.

Because He gave his soul to death,
Because he bare the sins of earth,
The world at last shall know his worth
And praise Him to its latest breath.