Why does your face, ye hum­ble souls,
Those mourn­ful colors wear!
What doubts are these that waste your faith,
And nour­ish your des­pair?

What though your nu­mer­ous sins ex­ceed
The stars that fill the skies,
And aim­ing at th’eter­nal throne,
Like point­ed mount­ains rise:

What though your migh­ty guilt be­yond
The wide cre­ation swell,
And has its cursed foun­da­tions laid
Low as the deeps of hell:

See here an end­less ocean flows
Of ne­ver-fail­ing grace;
Behold a dy­ing Sav­ior’s veins
The sac­red flood in­crease.

It ris­es high, and drowns the hills,
Has nei­ther shore nor bound:
Now, if we search to find our sins,
Our sins can ne’er be found.

Awake, our hearts, adore the grace
That bur­ies all our faults;
And par­don­ing blood, that swells above
Our foll­ies and our thoughts.