In ev­il long I took de­light,
Unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new ob­ject struck my sight,
And stopped my wild ca­reer.

I saw One hang­ing on a tree,
In ago­ny and blood,
Who fixed His lang­uid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Sure, ne­ver to my lat­est breath,
Can I for­get that look;
It seemed to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.

My con­science felt and owned the guilt,
And plunged me in des­pair,
I saw my sins His blood had spilt,
And helped to nail Him there.

Alas! I knew not what I did,
But now my tears are vain;
Where shall my trem­bling soul be hid?
For I the Lord have slain.

A se­cond look He gave, which said,
I free­ly all for­give;
This blood is for thy ran­som paid;
I die, that thou may’st live.

Thus, while His death my sin dis­plays,
In all its black­est hue,
Such is the mys­te­ry of grace,
It seals my par­don, too.

With pleas­ing grief and mourn­ful joy,
My spir­it now is filled;
That I should such a life de­stroy,
Yet live by Him I killed.