1 Why does your face, ye humble souls, Those mournful colours wear? What doubts are these that waste your faith, And nourish your despair?
2 What tho' your numerous sins exceed The stars that fill the skies, And aiming at th' eternal throne, Like pointed mountains rise?
3 What tho' your mighty guilt beyond The wide creation swell, And has its curs'd foundations laid Low as the deeps of hell?
4 See here an endless ocean flows Of never-failing grace, Behold a dying Saviour's veins The sacred flood increase:
5 It rises high and drowns the hills, 'T has neither shore nor bound: Nor if we search to find our sins, Our sins can ne'er be found.
6 Awake, our hearts, adore the grace That buries all our faults, And pardoning blood that swells above Our follies and our thoughts.