How pleasant is the sound of praise!
It well becomes the saints of God:
Should we refuse our songs to raise,
The stones might tell our shame abroad.
For Him who washed us in His blood,
Let us our sweetest songs prepare;
He sought us wandering far from God,
And now preserves us by His care.
One string there is of sweetest tone,
Reserved for sinners saved by grace;
'Tis sacred to one class alone,
And touched by one peculiar race.
Though angels may with rapture see
How mercy flows in Jesus' blood,
It is not theirs to prove, as we,
The cleansing virtue of this flood.
Though angels praise the heavenly King,
And Him their Lord adoring own,
We can with exultation sing,
"He wears our nature on the throne."
Lord, we adore the wondrous love
Which brought Thee here to bleed and die;
Soon may we meet in heaven above,
To sing Thy praises in the sky.