Holy Lord God! I love Thy truth,
Nor dare Thy least com­mand­ment slight;
Yet pierced by sin, the ser­pent’s tooth,
I mourn the ang­uish of the bite.

But though the poi­son lurks with­in,
Hope bids me still with pa­tience wait;
Till death shall set me free from sin,
Free from the on­ly thing I hate.

Had I a throne above the rest,
Where an­gels and arch­an­gels dwell;
One sin, un­slain, with­in my breast,
Would make that Heav’n as dark as hell.

The pri­son­er, sent to breathe fresh air,
And blessed with li­ber­ty again,
Would mourn, were he con­demned to wear
One link of all his for­mer chain.

But O! no foe in­vades the bliss,
When glo­ry crowns the Chris­tian’s head;
One view of Je­sus as He is,
Will strike all sin for­ev­er dead.