William Walker arranged the tune "Tender-Hearted Christian" in The Southern & Western Pocket Harmonist in 1845, "intended as an appendix to the Southern Harmony." The song can be found on page 78 (http://www.hymnary.org/hymn/SWPH1845/78).

He uses the lyrics:

    Come all ye tender-hearted Christians,
    Come join with me to weep and mourn,
    To see the man of constant sorrows,
    Abused, forsaken, and forlorn;

    The foxes they have holes prepared,
    And birds of air have pleasant nests;
    But Christ, the Son of man, worse far-ed
    He had nowhere to go to rest.

And six other verses, all of which can be found in the image linked above. The original words come from Stith Mead's 1807 A General Selection, which is sadly not available online. I was able to track down a copy on an institutional library server, and I'll post the full lyrics below.

The tune is also included in the newly-published Shenandoah Harmony on page 270. Here's a recording of it, track 13 on the following page: (http://www.shenandoahharmony.com/2013/keystone-2013-recordings/). As you can hear, the tune is very different from the secular versions, and as you'll read, the 1807 text goes in a completely different direction as well. All the same,

Lyrics from Mead's A General Selection, 1806-7. Trigger warning: pretty damn macabre. Other trigger warning: lots of Fs where there fhould be Fs.

p. 85, HYMN LIV. CHrist Suffering. Trigger

Come all you tender hearted Chriftians
O come and help me for to mourn
To fee the fon of God a bleeding,
And his precious body torn:
To fee him in the garden lying,
And his body bowed down;
To fee the bloody fweat a running,
In drops a falling to the ground.

He was a man of conftant forrow,
He went a mourner all his days,
And with grief, was well acquainted,
He never went in finful ways.
The foxes they have holes provided,
And the fowls of th' air have nefts,
But the fon of God had no where,
For to lay his head to rest.

Behold the foldiers when they took him,
and led him unto Pilate's bar,
Come all you broken hearted mourners,
O come and view your Savior here;
Behold him when he was condemned,
A wearing of his thorny crown,
And his tender temples pierced,
Until the blood came trickling down.

See the foldiers, now they take him,
And nail him to the rugged tree,
With their knotted whips they fcourge him,
Until the bones by-ftanders fee.
He gave his back up to the fmiters,
Who made long furrows in the fame,
And his vifage was more marred,
Than any of the fons of men.

He did not hide his face from fpitting,
Nor his cheeks from cruel hands,
You berfecuting finners view him,
For you he fpreads his bleeding hands,
O Who is that that comes from BOZRAM,
With his garments dyed red,
And his vefture with crimfon ftained,
Like one who in the wine prefs tread?

Behold him on the crofs a bleeding,
And his foul in agony,
The glittering fur, withdraws his fhining,
And this was done for finful me.
Huge maffy rocks were burft afunder,
When the lamb gave up the ghoft,
The pond'rous earth did quake and tremble,
And many of the dead came forth.

They laid him in a new fepulchre,
Where never man was laid before;
He burft the bands of death afunder,
And brought falvation to the poor:
Behold him pleading for poor finners,
At his heavenly father's fide,
And when juftice cries againft him,
Says, father fpare them I have died.

And folks complain about violent video games.