From the cross the blood is fall­ing,
And to us a voice is call­ing,
Like a trum­pet sil­ver-clear.
’Tis the voice an­nounc­ing par­don,
It is fin­ished is its bur­den,
Pardon to the far and near.

Peace that pre­cious blood is seal­ing,
All our wounds for ev­er heal­ing,
And re­mov­ing ev­ery load;
Words of peace that voice has spok­en,
Peace that shall no more be brok­en,
Peace be­tween the soul and God.

Love its full­ness there un­fold­ing,
Stand we here in joy be­hold­ing,
To the ex­iled sons of men;
Love the glad­ness past all nam­ing,
Of an open Hea­ven pro­claim­ing,
Love that bids us en­ter in.

God is love—we read the writ­ing
Traced so deep­ly in the smit­ing
Of the glo­ri­ous Sure­ty there.
God is light—we see it beam­ing
Like a hea­ven­ly day­spring gleam­ing
So di­vine­ly sweet and fair.

Cross of shame, yet tree of glo­ry,
Round thee winds the one great st­ory
Of this ev­er-chang­ing earth;
Center of the true and ho­ly,
Grave of hu­man sin and fol­ly,
Womb of na­ture’s se­cond birth.