Faith is a ve­ry sim­ple thing,
Tho’ lit­tle un­der­stood;
It frees the soul from death’s dread sting,
By rest­ing in the blood.
It looks not on the things around,
Nor on the things with­in,
It takes its flight to scenes above,
Beyond the sphere of sin.

It sees up­on the throne of God
A vic­tim that was slain;
It rests its all on His shed blood,
And says, I’m born again.
Faith is not what we feel or see,
It is a sim­ple trust
In what the God of love has said
Of Je­sus, as the Just.

The per­fect One that died for me,
Upon His Fa­ther’s throne,
Presents our names be­fore our God,
And pleads Him­self alone.
What Je­sus is, and that alone,
Is faith’s de­light­ful plea;
It ne­ver deals with sin­ful self,
Nor right­eous self, in me.

It tells me I am count­ed dead
By God in His own word;
It tells me I am born again
In Christ my ris­en Lord.
In that He died, He died to sin;
In that He lives—to God:
Then I am dead to na­ture’s hopes,
And jus­ti­fied thro’ blood.

If He is free, then I am free
From all un­right­eous­ness;
If He is just, then I am just,
He is my right­eous­ness.
What want I more to per­fect bliss?
A bo­dy like His own
Will per­fect me for great­er joys,
Than an­gels round the throne.