How sweet, O Lord, Thy word of grace
Which bids a sin­ner seek Thy face,
And nev­er seek in vain,
And nev­er seek in vain;
That face, once set so stead­fast­ly
To meet Thy cross of ago­ny,
Can nev­er me dis­dain,
Can nev­er me dis­dain.

Thy vis­age, marred and crowned with thorn,
Thou didst not hide from grief and scorn,
Nor from the dew of night,
Nor from the dew of night;
Yet, in that face a love ap­pears
Which scat­ters all my gloomy fears,
And fills my soul with light,
And fills my soul with light.

The heav­ens de­clare Thy pow­er and love;
In all Thy works, be­low, above,
Thy ma­jes­ty I trace,
Thy ma­jes­ty I trace,
But mer­cy shines not in the skies,
And hope within my spir­it dies,
Until I see Thy face,
Until I see Thy face.

The bright­ness of Thy glo­ry, Lord,
Fills Heav­en and earth and writ­ten Word
With beams of heav­en­ly grace,
With beams of heav­en­ly grace;
But all the hosts of Heav­en shine
With no such ra­di­ance di­vine
As Thy most bless­èd face,
As Thy most bless­èd face.