From deep dis­tress and trou­bled thoughts
To Thee, my God, I raised my cries;
If Thou sev­ere­ly mark our faults,
No flesh can stand be­fore Thine eyes.

But Thou hast built Thy throne of grace
Free to dis­pense Thy par­dons there,
That sin­ners may ap­proach Thy face,
And hope and love, as well as fear.

As the be­night­ed pil­grims wait
And long, and wish for break­ing day,
So waits my soul be­fore Thy gate;
When will my God His face dis­play?

My trust is fixed up­on Thy Word,
Nor shall I trust Thy Word in vain;
Let mourn­ing souls ad­dress the Lord
And find re­lief from all their pain.

Great is His love, and large His grace,
Through the re­demp­tion of His Son;
He turns our feet from sin­ful ways,
And par­dons what our hands have done.