Why does your face, ye humble souls,Those mournful colors wear?What doubts are these that waste your faith,And nourish your despair?
What though your numerous sins exceedThe stars that fill the skies,And aiming at th’eternal throne,Like pointed mountains rise:
What though your mighty guilt beyondThe wide creation swell,And has its cursed foundations laidLow as the deeps of hell:
See here an endless ocean flowsOf never-failing grace;Behold a dying Savior’s veinsThe sacred flood increase.
It rises high, and drowns the hills,Has neither shore nor bound:Now, if we search to find our sins,Our sins can ne’er be found.
Awake, our hearts, adore the graceThat buries all our faults;And pard’ning blood, that swells aboveOur follies and our thoughts.