Sinners, ob­ey the gra­cious call,
Unto the Lord your God re­turn,
The dire oc­ca­sion of your fall—
Your fool­ish­ness of fol­ly mourn.
Sin on­ly hath your ru­in been;
In hum­ble words your grief ex­press,
Turn to the Lord: Your shame­ful sin,
The bur­den of your soul, con­fess.

God of all pow­er, and truth, and grace,
All our ini­qui­ty re­move,
Spare and ac­cept a fall­en race,
God of all pow­er, and truth, and love,
Take all, take all our sins away,
Nor guilt, nor pow­er, nor be­ing have,
Forgive us now, Thine arm dis­play,
Thine own for Je­sus’ sake re­ceive.

So will we ren­der Thee the praise,
With joy­ful lips and hearts re­newed,
Present Thee all our sin­less days,
A liv­ing sac­ri­fice to God.
So will we trust in man no more,
No more to man for suc­cor fly,
The works of our own hands adore,
Or seek our­selves to jus­ti­fy.

Not by an arm of flesh, but Thine,
We look from sin to be set free;
O Love, O Right­eous­ness di­vine,
The help­less all find help in Thee.
Surely in Me, your God re­plies,
“The fa­ther­less shall mer­cy find,
Whoe’er on Me for help re­lies,
Shall know the Sav­ior of man­kind.

“I (for my Son hath died to seal
Their peace, and all My wrath re­move)
I will their sin-sick spir­its heal,
And free­ly the back­slid­ers love.
I will My so­ve­reign art dis­play,
To per­fect health their soul re­store,
And take their bent to sin away,
And lift them up to fall no more.

“In bless­ings will I then come down,
And wa­ter them with gra­cious dew,
And all My for­mer mer­cies crown,
And ev­ery par­doned soul re­new.
Israel shall as the li­ly grow,
As chaste, as beau­ti­ful, and white,
Yet strik­ing deep his roots be­low,
And tow­er­ing as the ce­dar’s height.

“His branch­ing arms he wide shall spread,
And flour­ish in eter­nal bloom—
Fair as the ol­ive’s ver­dant shade,
Fragrant as Le­ba­non’s per­fume.
Whoe’er be­neath his sha­dow dwell,
Shall as the pu­trid corn re­vive,
A mor­tal quick­en­ing vir­tue feel,
And sink to rise, and die to live.

“Their boughs with fruit am­bro­si­al crowned,
As Le­ba­non’s thick-clus­ter­ing vine,
Shall spread their od­ors all around,
Grateful to hu­man taste, and Mine.
Ephraim, my plea­sant child, shall say,
‘With id­ols what have I to do?
I can­not sin: get hence away,
Vain world! I can­not stoop to you.’

‘God, on­ly God hath all my heart,
My vile ido­la­tries are o’er,
I can­not now from God de­part,
For, born of God, I sin no more.’
Whoe’er to this high prize as­pire,
And long My ut­most grace to prove,
I heard, and marked their heart’s de­sire,
And I will per­fect them in love.

Beneath My love’s al­migh­ty shade,
O Is­ra­el, sit, and rest se­cure,
On Me thy qui­et soul be stayed,
Till pure as I thy God am pure.
Surely I will My peo­ple save;
Who on My faith­ful word de­pend
Their fruit to ho­li­ness shall have,
And glo­ri­ous all to Hea­ven as­cend.