On the dear wounds of Christ we call,
No other pain could prove,
Like that red fountain's endless fall,
His hearts excess or love.

How oft his shoulders, meekly bared,
The bitter lash withstood,
The stones of Pilate's hall declared,
Stained with redeeming blood.

Look, where his noble brow doth feel
The mocking crown of thorn!
Look on those nails, whose blunted steel
His hands and feet hath torn!

But when his spirit he resigned
With loving, conscious will,
Water and blood their streams combined
That sacred fount to till.

Come hither, all who vainly weep,
With sin's pollution dyed;
Cleansed is the soul that plunges deep
In this atoning tide.

To Christ, beside his Father's throne
Ruling on high, be praise.
Whose blood could for our sins atone,
Whose Spirit guides our ways.