Stupendous grace! and can it be
Designed for re­bels such as we?
O let our ar­dent prais­es rise
High as our hopes be­yond the skies!
This flesh, by right­eous ven­geance slain,
Might ev­er in the dust remain:
There guil­ty spir­its sent to dwell
Midst all the flames and fiends of hell.

But lo! In­car­nate Love des­cends;
Down to the se­pul­cher it bends;
Rising, it tears the bars away,
And springs to its own na­tive day.
Then was our se­pul­cher un­barred,
Then was our path to glo­ry cleared;
Then, if that Sav­ior be our own,
Did we as­cend a heav’n­ly throne.

A mo­ment shall our joy com­plete,
And fix us in that shin­ing seat,
Bought by the pangs our Lord en­dured,
And by un­chang­ing truth se­cured.
O may that love, in strains sub­lime,
Be sung to the last hour of time!
And let eter­ni­ty con­fess,
Through all its rounds, the match­less grace.