Now, my soul, thy voice up­rais­ing,
Tell in sweet and mourn­ful strain
How the Cru­ci­fied, en­dur­ing
Grief, and wounds, and dy­ing pain,
Freely of His love was of­fered,
Sinless was for sin­ners slain.

Scourged with un­re­lent­ing fu­ry
For the sins which we de­plore,
By His li­vid stripes He heals us,
Raising us to fall no more;
All our bruis­es gent­ly sooth­ing,
Binding up the bleed­ing sore.

See! His hands and feet are fast­ened!
So He makes His peo­ple free;
Not a wound whence blood is flow­ing
But a fount of grace shall be;
Yea, the ve­ry nails which nail Him
Nail us al­so to the tree.

Through His heart the spear is pierc­ing,
Though His foes have seen Him die;
Blood and wa­ter thence are stream­ing
In a tide of mys­te­ry,
Water from our guilt to cleanse us,
Blood to win us crowns on high.

Jesu, may those pre­cious foun­tains
Drink to thirst­ing souls af­ford:
Let them be our cup and heal­ing,
And at length our full re­ward;
So a ran­somed world shall ev­er
Praise Thee, its re­deem­ing Lord.