‘Twas I that shed the sacred blood;

I nailed him to the tree;

I crucified the Christ of God;

I joined the mockery.

Of all that shouting multitude

I feel that I am one;

And in that din of voices rude

I recognize my own.

Around the cross the throng I see,

Mocking the Sufferer’s groan;

Yet still my voice is seems to be,

As if I mocked alone.