Lord, I would stand with thoughtful eye beneath thy fatal tree and see thee bleed and see thee die and think what love to me. Dwell on the sight of my stony heart till every pulse within shall into contrite sorrows start and hate the thought of sin. Didst thou for me, my savior brave, the scoff, the scourge, the gall, the nails, the thorns, the spear, the grave while I deserved them all? Oh, help me some return to make to yield my heart to thee and do and suffer for thy sake as thou didst then for me. Henry Francis Lyte.