Nature with op­en vol­ume stands,
To spread her mak­er’s praise abroad;
And ev­ery la­bor of His hands
Shows some­thing wor­thy of a God.

But in the grace that res­cued man
His bright­est form of glo­ry shines;
Here, on the cross, ’tis fair­est drawn,
In pre­cious blood and crim­son lines.

Here His whole name ap­pears com­plete;
Nor wit can guess, nor rea­son prove,
Which of the let­ters best is writ,
The pow­er, the wis­dom, or the love.

Here I be­hold His in­most heart,
Where grace and ven­geance strange­ly join,
Piercing His Son with sharp­est smart,
To make the pur­chased plea­sures mine.

O! the sweet won­ders of that cross,
Where God the Sav­ior loved and died!
Her nob­lest life my spi­rit draws
From His dear wounds and bleed­ing side.

I would for­ev­er speak His name,
In sounds to mor­tal ears un­known;
With an­gels join to praise the Lamb,
And wor­ship at His Fa­ther’s throne.