Sunday Hymn: O Sacred Head Now Wounded

O sac­red head, now wound­ed,
With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scorn­ful­ly sur­round­ed
With thorns, Thine on­ly crown;
O sac­red head, what glo­ry!
What bliss, till now was Thine!
Yet, though des­pised and go­ry,
I joy to call Thee mine.

O nob­lest brow, and dear­est!
In oth­er days the world
All feared, when Thou ap­peared’st,
What shame on Thee is hurled!
How art Thou pale with ang­uish,
With sore abuse and scorn;
How does that vi­sage lang­uish,
When once was bright as morn.

The blush­es late re­sid­ing
Upon that ho­ly cheek,
The ros­es once abid­ing
Upon those lips so meek,
Alas! they have de­part­ed;
Wan Death has ri­fled all!
For weak and brok­en heart­ed,
I see Thy bo­dy fall.

What Thou, my Lord, hast suf­fered,
Was all for sin­ners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the trans­gress­ion,
But Thine the dead­ly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Sav­ior!
’Tis I de­serve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy fa­vor,
Vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

Receive me, my Re­deem­er,
My Shep­herd, make me Thine;
Of eve­ry good the fount­ain,
Thou art the spring of mine.
Thy lips with love dis­till­ing,
And milk of truth sin­cere,
With Heav­en’s bliss are fill­ing
The soul that trem­bles here.

Beside Thee, Lord, I’ve tak­en
My place—for­bid me not!
Hence will I ne’er be shak­en,
Though Thou to death be brought,
If pain’s last pale­ness hold Thee,
In ago­ny op­pressed,
Then, then will I en­fold Thee
Within this arm and breast!

The joy can ne’er be spok­en,
Above all joys be­side;
When in Thy body brok­en
I thus with safe­ty hide.
My Lord of life, de­sir­ing
Thy glo­ry now to see,
Beside the cross ex­pir­ing,
I’d breathe my soul to Thee.

What lang­uage shall I bor­row,
To thank Thee, dear­est friend,
For this, Thy dy­ing sor­row,
Thy pi­ty with­out end?
Oh! make me Thine for­ev­er,
And should I fain­ting be,
Lord, let me nev­er, nev­er
Outlive my love to Thee.

And when I am de­part­ing,
Oh! part not Thou from me;
When mor­tal pangs are dart­ing,
Come, Lord, and set me free;
And when my heart must lang­uish
Amidst the fi­nal throe,
Release me from mine an­guish,
By Thine own pain and woe!

Be near me when I am dy­ing,
Oh! show Thy cross to me;
And for my suc­cor fly­ing,
Come, Lord, and set me free!
These eyes new faith re­ceiv­ing,
From Je­sus shall not move,
For he who dies be­liev­ing,
Dies safe­ly through Thy love.

—At­trib­ut­ed to Ber­nard of Clair­vaux

Theological Term: Dyotheletism

monotheletism

The orthodox teaching that Jesus, the incarnate Son, has two wills, his divine will and his human will. It was condemned at the Third Council of Constantinople.

• From the Definition of Faith from the Third Council of Constantinople:

[W]e likewise declare that in [Christ] are two natural wills and two natural operations indivisibly, inconvertibly, inseparably, inconfusedly, according to the teaching of the holy Fathers.  And these two natural wills are not contrary the one to the other (God forbid!) as the impious heretics assert, but his human will follows and that not as resisting and reluctant, but rather as subject to his divine and omnipotent will. 

• From Systematic Theology by Robert Letham, page 509:

In 649, Pope Martin I called a council, with Maximus present, which adopted a clear dyothelite position, that in Christ there are two wills, in harmony with Maximus’s teaching. This did not settle the matter, and controversy lingered, eventually resolved at the Third Council of Constantinople in 680-681.

The definition produced by that council specified that in Christ there are “two natural wills and two natural operations, indivisibly, incontrovertibly, inseparably, inconfusedly.” These two wills “are not contrary the one to the other … but the human will follows … as subject to his divine and omnipotent will.”

Learn more:

1. Got Questions: What is dyotheletism?
2. W. Robert Godfrey: Does Christ Have One or Two Wills?
3. Stephen Nichols: Maximus the Confessor

Related terms:

• adoptionism
• Apollinarianism
• Arianism
• monotheletism

Filed under Defective Theology

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Sunday Hymn: My Shepherd Will Supply My Need

My shep­herd will sup­ply my need:
Jehovah is His name;
In pas­tures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the liv­ing stream.
He brings my wan­der­ing spir­it back
When I for­sake His ways,
And leads me, for His mer­cy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.

When I walk through the shades of death
Thy pre­sence is my stay;
One word of Thy sup­port­ing breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my ta­ble spread;
My cup with bless­ings ov­er­flows,
Thine oil an­oints my head.

The sure pro­vi­sions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be mine abode,
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a set­tled rest,
While oth­ers go and come;
No more a stran­ger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.

—Isaac Watts