From depths of woe I raise to Thee
The voice of la­men­ta­tion;
Lord, turn a gra­cious ear to me
And hear my sup­pli­cation;
If Thou ini­qui­ties dost mark,
Our sec­ret sins and mis­deeds dark,
O who shall stand be­fore Thee?

To wash away the crim­son stain,
Grace, grace alone avail­eth;
Our works, alas! are all in vain;
In much the best life fail­eth:
No man can glo­ry in Thy sight,
All must alike con­fess Thy might,
And live alone by me­rcy.

Therefore my trust is in the Lord,
And not in mine own mer­it;
On Him my soul shall rest, His Word
Upholds my faint­ing spir­it:
His pro­mised mercy is my fort,
My com­fort, and my sweet sup­port;
I wait for it with pa­tience.

What though I wait the live­long night,
And till the dawn ap­peareth,
My heart still trust­eth in His might;
It doubt­eth not nor fear­eth:
Do thus, O ye of Is­ra­el’s seed,
Ye of the Spir­it born in­deed;
And wait till God ap­peareth.

Though great our sins and sore our woes,
His grace much more abound­eth;
His help­ing love no li­mit knows,
Our ut­most need it sound­eth.
Our Shep­herd good and true is He,
Who will at last His Is­ra­el free.
From all their sin and sor­row.