When The Wounded Spirit Hears


When the wounded spirit hears
The voice of Jesu’s blood;
How the message stops the tears
Which else in vain had flowed:
Pardon, grace, and peace proclaimed,
And the sinner called a child;
Then the stubborn heart is tamed;
Renewed and reconciled.

Oh! ’twas grace indeed, to spare
And save a wretch like me!
Men or angels could not bear
What I have offered thee:
Were thy bolts at their command,
Hell, ere now, had been my place;
Thou alone should silent stand,
And wait to show thy grace.

If in one created mind
The tenderness and love
Of thy saints on earth were joined,
With all the hosts above;
Still that love were weak and poor,
If compared, my Lord, with thine;
Far too scanty to endure
A heart so file as mine.

Wondrous mercy I have found,
But Ah! how faint my praise!
Must I be a cumber-ground,
Unfruitful all my days!
Do I in thy garden grow,
Yet produce thee only leaves?
Lord, forbid it should be so!
The thought my spirit grieves.

Heavy charges Satan brings,
To fill me with distress;
Let me hide beneath thy wings,
And plead thy righteousness:
Lord to thee for help I call,
‘Tis thy promise bids me come;
Tell him thou hast paid for all,
And thou shalt strike him dumb.

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