Thou Son of God, whose flam­ing eyes
Our in­most thoughts per­ceive,
Accept the grate­ful sac­ri­fice
Which now to Thee we give.

We bow be­fore Thy gra­cious throne,
And think our­selves sin­cere;
But show us, Lord, is ev­ery­one
Thy real wor­ship­er?

Is here a soul who knows Thee not,
Nor feels his need of Thee;
A stran­ger to the blood which bought
His par­don on the tree?

Convince him now of un­be­lief,
His des­per­ate state ex­plain;
And his fill his heart with sac­red grief,
And pe­ni­ten­tial pain.

Speak with that voice that wakes the dead,
And bid the sleep­er rise,
And bid his guil­ty con­science dread
The death that ne­ver dies.

Extort the cry, “What must be done
To save a wretch like me?
How shall a trem­bling sin­ner shun
That end­less mi­se­ry?

“I must this in­stant now be­gin,
Out of my sleep to wake,
And turn to God, and ev­ery sin
Continually for­sake.

I must for faith in­ces­sant cry,
And wres­tle, Lord, with Thee;
I must be born again, or die
To all eter­ni­ty.