THOUGH loud the great accuser roar
Of ills that I have done,
And though they grieve my spirit sore,
God says He findeth none.
Christ's precious blood has done its work,
For all my sins He bore
While hanging on the accursed tree,
Beneath God's judgment sore.
God's waves of wrath and judgment broke
Upon His holy head,
Who when that cup of wrath was drained,
Was numbered with the dead.
Of such eternal value was
That work upon the tree,
That God has said my sins are gone,
Not one He now 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 would flow
Unceasing songs of praise
While here on earth, but sweeter far
Through heaven's eternal days.