His holy fingers formed the bough
Where grew the thorns that crowned his brow.
The nails that pierced his hand were mined
In secret places he designed

He made the forest whence there sprung
The tree on which his body hung.
He died upon a cross of wodd,
Yer made the hill upon which it stood.

The sun which hid from him its face,
By his decree was poised in space.
The sky which darkned o’er his head,
By him above the earth was spread.

The spear split his precious blood
Was tempered in the fires of God.
The grave in which his form was laid
Was hewn in rocks his hands had made.

- F.W. Pitt