Behold what won­drous grace
The Fa­ther has be­stowed
On sin­ners of a mor­tal race,
To call them sons of God!

’Tis no sur­pris­ing thing
That we should be un­known;
The Jew­ish world knew not their king,
God’s ev­er­last­ing Son.

Nor doth it yet ap­pear
How great we must be made;
But when we see our Sav­ior here,
We shall be like our head.

A hope so much di­vine
May tri­als well en­dure;
May purge our souls from sense and sin,
As Christ the Lord is pure.

If in my Fa­ther’s love
I share a fi­li­al part,
Send down Thy Spi­rit like a dove,
To rest up­on my heart.

We would no long­er lie
Like slaves be­neath the throne;
My faith shall Ab­ba, Fa­ther, cry,
And thou the kin­dred own.