Hail, holy Wounds of Jesus, hail, Sweet pledges of the saving Rood, Whence flow the streams that never fail, The purple streams of His dear Blood. Brighter than brightest stars ye show, Than sweetest rose your scent more rare, No Indian gem may match your glow, No honey's taste with yours compare. Portals ye are to that dear home Wherein our wearied souls may hide, Whereto no angry foe can come, The Heart of Jesus crucified. What countless stripes our Jesus bore, All naked left in Pilate's hall! From His torn flesh how red a shower Did round His sacred person fall! His beauteous brow, oh, shame and grief, By the sharp thorny crown is riven; Through hands and feet, without relief, The cruel nails are rudely driven. But when for our poor sakes He died, A willing Priest by love subdued, The soldier's lance transfixed His side, Forth flowed the Water and the Blood. In full atonement of our guilt, Careless of self, the Saviour trod— E'en till His Heart's best Blood was spilt— The wine-press of the wrath of God. Come, bathe you in the healing flood, All ye who mourn, by sin opprest; Your only hope is Jesus' Blood, His Sacred Heart your only rest. All praise to Him, the Eternal Son, At God's right hand enthroned above, Whose Blood our full redemption won, Whose Spirit seals the gift of love.