What though the great accuser roar
Of ills that I have done,
And oft they grieve my spirit sore,
God looks but findeth none,
Christ's precious blood has done its work,
For all my sins He bore—
When hanging on the accursed tree.
Beneath God's judgment sore.
God's waves of wrath and judgment broke
Upon His holy head,
And when that cup of wrath was drained,
He's numbered with the dead.
Of such eternal value was
That work upon the tree,
That God now says my sins are gone,
Not one that He can see.
O love divine that gave for me
Thy precious blood to save,
To set me free from all my sins,
By which I was enslaved.
From this poor heart of mine should flow
Unceasing songs of praise,
Begun on earth, but sweeter far
Through heaven's eternal days.