My Substitute

I saw One hanging on a tree, In agony and blood;
He fixed His languid eyes on me, As near His cross I stood.
Oh, can it be, upon a tree The Saviour died for me?
My soul is thrilled, My heart is filled,
To think He died for me!

(“He Died For Me” by John Newton, 1725-1807).

On the cross he took my place and my punishment and bought my freedom with His blood.

Once it was mine, the cup of wrath,
But Jesus drank it dry,
When on the cursed tree transfixed,
He breathed the expiring sigh.

No tongue can tell the wrath He bore,
The wrath so due to me,
Sin's just desert; He bore it all,
To set the sinner free!

Now not a single drop remains,
"'Tis finished," was His cry;
By one effectual draught, He drank
The cup of wrath quite dry.

("The Cup of Wrath" by Albert Midlane, 1825-1909).