On the dear wounds of Christ we call,
No other cage could prove,
Like that red fountain's endless fall,
His heart's excess of 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 does feel,
The mocking crown of thorn!
Look on those nails, whose blunted steel,
His hands and feet have torn!

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

Come nearer, 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.