Who through Thy body and Thy blood

Hast wrought my soul’s eternal good.

Break forth, my soul, in joy and praise;

What wealth is mine this day of days!

My Jesus dwells within my soul;

Let every tongue His grace extol.

Kingo’s historical hymns, that is, his hymns on the stories of the Gospels, usually are not counted among the best. Yet there are many fine hymns among

them, such as the annunciation hymn, “There Came a Message from the Sky”; the hymn about the wedding at Cana, “How Blessed Was that Wedding Feast”;

and the splendid hymn on the transfiguration of the Lord, “I Lift My Eyes and

Spirit Up unto the Hallowed Mountain Top Where Jesus Once Ascended”. Best

known among this group of hymns is, however, his great sequence of songs on

our Lord’s passion. In these inspired hymns we meet again the Kingo that we know from his spiritual songs, fiery, eloquent, imaginative, seeking to picture

every detail and mood of the Savior’s suffering from the garden to the cross.

Though it is difficult to choose among hymns so universally fine, the one given

below is, at least, fairly representative of the group.

Over Kedron Jesus passes

Ready for His passion day,

While the Prince of Darkness masses

All his legions for the fray.

Wily foes with evil hearts

Bend their bows and point their darts,

Aiming at the Savior solely,

As the world forsakes Him wholly.

David once in great affliction

Crossed the Kedron’s narrow stream,

While his foes without restriction

Hatched their vile and cunning scheme.

Darker far the shadows now

Bend about the Savior’s brow

As He hastens to His passion

For the sinful world’s salvation.

See Him, torn by woe appalling,

Kneeling in the garden still,

And upon His Father calling

That, if possible, He will

Take the bitter cup away.

But how meekly He doth pray!

What the Father shall Him offer,

He obediently will suffer.

See, what agony assails Him

In that dark and fearful hour;

Every friend deserts or fails Him;

Satan strikes with all his power;

And the flowers beneath Him grow

Crimson with the purple flow

From His anguished frame distilling

As His cup of woe is filling.

But, O flower, whose tender blossom

Caught that precious, purple dew

From the Saviour’s riven bosom,