My Song is Love Unknown (Version 2)

My song is love unknown, my Savior’s love to me
Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be
Oh who am I that for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne salvation to bestow
But men made strange, and none the longed for Christ would know
But oh my Friend, my Friend indeed
Who at my need His life did spend

Sometimes they strew His way, and His sweet praises sing
Resounding all the day, hosannas to their King
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath
And for His death they thirst and cry

Why, what hath my Lord done? What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run, He gave the blind their sight
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
Themselves displease, and ’gainst Him rise

They rise and needs will have my dear Lord made away
A murderer they save; the Prince of Life they slay
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes
That He His foes from thence might free

In life no house, no home, my Lord on earth might have
In death no friendly tomb but what a stranger gave
What may I say? Heav’n was His home
But mine the tomb wherein He lay

Here might I stay and sing; no story so divine
Never was love, dear King! never was grief like Thine
This is my Friend, in whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend

-Samuel Crossman, written in 1664, (Bob Kauflin on piano)

 

My Song is Love Unknown

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I,
That for my sake
My Lord should take
Frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend,
My Friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!”
is all their breath,
And for His death
they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet injuries!
Yet they at these
Themselves displease,
and ’gainst Him rise.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they save,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He
to suffering goes,
That He His foes
from thence might free.

In life no house, no home,
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb,
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say?
Heav’n was his home;
But mine the tomb
Wherein he lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend,
in Whose sweet praise
I all my days
could gladly spend.

– Samuel Crossman, written in 1664