Oh, bliss of the purified, bliss
of the free,
I plunge in the crimson tide
opened for me;
O’er sin and uncleanness exulting
I stand,
And point to the print of the
nails in His hand.
Oh, sing of His
mighty love,
Sing of His mighty love,
Sing of His mighty love,
Mighty to save.Oh, bliss of the purified!
Jesus is mine,
No longer in dread condemnation I
pine;
In conscious salvation I sing of
His grace,
Who lifted upon me the light of
His face.Oh, bliss of the purified!
bliss of the pure!
No wound hath the soul that His
blood cannot cure;
No sorrow-bowed head but may
sweetly find rest,
No tears—but may dry them on
Jesus’ breast.O Jesus the Crucified! Thee
will I sing,
My blessed Redeemer, my God and
my King;
My soul, filled with rapture,
shall shout o’er the grave,
And triumph in death in the
“Mighty to Save.”