1 From deep distress and troubled thoughts, To thee, my God, I rais'd my cries; If thou severely mark our faults, No flesh can stand before thine eyes.
2 But thou hast built thy throne of grace, Free to dispense thy pardons there, That sinners may approach thy face, And hope and love, as well as fear.
3 As the benighted pilgrims wait, And long, and wish for breaking day, So waits my soul before thy gate; When will my God his face display?
4 My trust is fix'd upon thy word, Nor shall I trust thy word in vain: Let mourning souls address the Lord, And find relief from all their pain.
5 Great is his love, and large his grace, Thro' the redemption of his Son: He turns our feet from sinful ways, And pardons what our hands have done.