Sin, when viewed by Scrip­ture light,
Is a hor­rid, hate­ful sight;
But when seen in Sa­tan’s glass,
Then it wears a pleas­ing face.

When the Gos­pel trum­pet sounds,
When I think how grace abounds,
When I feel sweet peace with­in,
Then I’d ra­ther die than sin.

When the cross I view by faith,
Sin is mad­ness, poi­son, death;
Tempt me not, ’tis all in vain,
Sure I ne’er can yield again.

Satan, for awhile de­barred,
When he finds me off my guard,
Puts his glass be­fore my eyes,
Quickly oth­er thoughts arise.

What be­fore ex­cit­ed fears,
Rather pleas­ing now ap­pears;
If a sin, it seems so small,
Or, per­haps, no sin at all.

Often thus, through sin’s de­ceit,
Grief, and shame, and loss I meet,
Like a fish, my soul mis­took,
Saw the bait, but not the hook.

O my Lord, what shall I say?
How can I pre­sume to pray?
Not a word have I to plead,
Sins, like mine, are black in­deed!

Made, by past ex­pe­ri­ence, wise,
Let me learn Thy Word to prize;
Taught by what I’ve felt be­fore,
Let me Sa­tan’s glass ab­hor.