1 [Sitting around our Father's board We raise our tuneful breath; Our faith beholds her dying Lord, And dooms our sins to death.]
2 We see the blood of Jesus shed, Whence all our pardons rise; The sinner views th' atonement made, And loves the sacrifice.
3 Thy cruel thorns, thy shameful cross Procure us heavenly crowns; Our highest gain springs from thy loss, Our healing from thy wounds.
4 O 'tis impossible that we, Who dwell in feeble clay, Should equal sufferings bear for thee, Or equal thanks repay.