Sinners, ob­ey the Gos­pel word!
Haste to the sup­per of my Lord;
Be wise to know your gra­cious day;
All things are rea­dy; come away.

Ready the Fa­ther is to own
And kiss His late re­turn­ing son;
Ready your lov­ing Sav­ior stands,
And spreads for you His bleed­ing hands.

Ready the Spir­it of His love
Just now the stone to re­move,
To ap­ply, and wit­ness with the blood,
And wash and seal the sons of God.

Ready for you the an­gels wait,
To tri­umph in your blest es­tate;
Tuning their harps they long to praise
The won­ders of re­deem­ing grace.

The Fa­ther, Son, and Ho­ly Ghost
Are rea­dy, with Their shin­ing host:
All Hea­ven is rea­dy to re­sound,
The dead’s alive! The lost is found!

Come then, ye sin­ners, to your Lord,
In Christ to pa­ra­dise re­stored;
His prof­fered be­ne­fits em­brace,
The ple­ni­tude of Gos­pel grace.

A par­don writ­ten with His blood,
The fa­vor and the peace of God;
The see­ing eye, the feel­ing sense,
The mys­tic joys of pe­ni­tence.

The god­ly grief, the pleas­ing smart,
The melt­ings of a brok­en heart,
The tears that tell your sins for­giv­en,
The sighs that waft your souls to Hea­ven.

The guilt­less shame, the sweet dis­tress,
The un­ut­ter­able ten­der­ness,
The gen­uine, meek hu­mi­li­ty,
The won­der, Why such love to me?

The ov­er­whelm­ing pow­er of sav­ing grace,
The sight that veils the se­raph’s face;
The speech­less awe that dares not move,
And all the si­lent hea­ven of love.