By faith I look where Christ has gone,
And see up­on His Fa­ther’s throne
A Man, with glo­ry crowned;
His brow is marred, and on His side,
Whence flowed the cleans­ing crim­son tide,
The marks of love are found.

Here is the re­cord of the past—
Fruit of my sins that bound Him fast
To that de­grad­ing tree;
In ev­ery wound I read my guilt,
And thank Him that His blood was spilt
To set my con­science free.

I look again, and now I see
That bless­èd Man en­gaged for me,
His hands up­lift­ed high;
Before the throne of God He pleads,
God’s great High Priest, He in­ter­cedes,
And so pre­serves me nigh.

Once more I gaze up­on that face,
And lo! as if to leave His place
He seems about to rise;
Recalling His I quick­ly come,
I learn His thought—to fetch me home,
To praise Him in the skies.

What love! He washed my sins away,
Thus bold­ness in the Judg­ment Day
For me there doth re­main.
What grace! now oc­cu­pied with me,
He wills I should His glo­ry see,
When He re­turns again!