Weary of earth, and la­den with my sin,
I look at Heav’n and long to en­ter in,
But there no ev­il thing may find a home—
And yet I hear a voice that bids me Come.

So vile I am, how dare I hope to stand
In the pure glo­ry of that ho­ly land?
Before the white­ness of that throne ap­pear?
Yet there are hands stretched out to draw me near.

The while I fain would tread the heav’n­ly way
Seems evil ev­er with me day by day;
Yet on mine ears the gra­cious tid­ings fall,
Repent, con­fess, thou shalt be loosed from all.

It is the voice of Je­sus that I hear!
His are the hands stretched out to draw me near,
And His the blood that can for all atone,
And set me fault­less there be­fore the throne.

’Twas He who found me on the death­ly wild,
And made me heir of Heav’n, the Fa­ther’s child,
And day by day, where­by my soul may live,
Giveth His grace of par­don, and will give.

O great Ab­solv­er! grant my soul may wear
The low­li­est garb of pe­ni­tence and pray­er,
That in the Fa­ther’s courts my glo­ri­ous dress
May be the gar­ment of Thy right­eous­ness.

Yea, Thou wilt an­swer for me, righ­teous Lord!
Thine all the mer­its, mine the great re­ward;
Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the gold­en crown;
Mine the life won, and Thine the life laid down!

Naught can I bring, dear Lord, for all I owe,
Yet let my full heart, what it can, be­stow;
Like that sweet nard, let my de­vo­tion prove,
Greatly for­giv­en, how great­ly I love.