What object's this which meets my eyes

What object's this which meets my eyes
Without Jerusalem's gate;
Which fills my mind with such surprise
As wonder to create?

Who can it be that groans beneath
A cross of massy wood;
Whose soul's o'erwhelmed in pains of death
And body bathed in blood?

Is this the Man? can this be he
The prophets have foretold
Should with transgressors numbered be,
And for their crimes be sold?

Yes, now I know 'tis he, 'tis he!
'Tis Jesus, God's dear Son,
Wrapped in humanity, to die
For crimes that I had done!

O blessed sight, O lovely form,
To sinful souls like me;
I'd creep beside him as a worm,
And see him bleed for me.

I'd hear his groans, and view each wound,
Until, with happy John,
I on his breast a place have found
Sweetly to lean upon.