Pilate said, No, I will beat him, and that will be enough. So Pilate gave Jesus to some soldiers, who took him into a house and beat him with knotted ropes, (this way of beating is called scourging,) and all the blood ran down his back. Then the cruel soldiers laughed at him because he said he was a king. They took off his own clothes, and put some fine clothes on him such as kings wear, purple and red. Then they said, We must put a crown on his head. So they took prickly thorns, sharp like pins, and twisted them together, and made a crown, and put it on his head. They said He must have a scepter, (for kings hold something called a scepter in their hands), so they put a reed in his hand for a scepter; then they took it from him, and beat him on the head: and they knelt down to him laughing, and said, O king! O king! Pilate saw the soldiers tormenting him, and he brought Jesus into the street, where the wicked people were, and he showed Jesus to them, and said, Look at your king. Pilate hoped they would be sorry to see him so ill-used; blood upon his forehead from the thorns, and his back scourged, and dressed in fine clothes to mock him: but the wicked people were cruel like tigers. Said they, Crucify him! Crucify him! All the people cried out, Crucify him! though Jesus had always been so kind to them. Will you crucify your king? said Pilate. He shall not be our king, the people said. There was a very great noise in the street, from the people all speaking at once. Then Pilate thought he would please the wicked people, and he said, Take him and crucify him. Then the people were glad. But first the soldiers took the fine clothes off Jesus, and put his own clothes on him again. How wicked it was of Pilate to let him be crucified! Pilate thought Jesus was good, yet he let him be killed to please the people. What! is there none to take _his_ part Who silent, trembling, bleeding, stands? Not one to cheer his broken heart, Or snatch him from those cruel hands? A thousand voices lifted high Now fill with horrid shouts the air— “Away with him and crucify!” Nor does _one_ friend for him appear. Behold how men his love reward! His tender flesh the scourge has torn, His gentle hands are bound with cord, His head is crown’d with prickly thorn. But why did God the Father let His only son be treated thus?— He sent his Son to pay our debt, And suffer all this pain for us. ’Twas I deserved, O dearest Lord, My flesh should be with scourging torn, My little hands be bound with cord, _My_ head be crown’d with prickly thorn. And now what can I do for him Who suffer’d all this pain for me? Whene’er I feel or hear of sin, I’ll think, O dearest Lord, of thee. Nor shall my hand in anger strike, When thy dear hands for me were bound; Nor shall my head with passion shake, When thine with prickly thorns was crown’d.