There is a spot of con­se­crat­ed ground,
Where bright­est hope and ho­li­est joys are found:
’Tis named (and Chris­tians love the well known sound)
The throne of grace.

’Tis here a calm re­treat is al­ways found:
Perpetual sun­shine gilds the sac­red ground;
Pure airs and hea­ven­ly od­ors breathe around
The throne of grace.

While on this van­tage ground the Chris­tian stands,
His quick­ened eye a bound­less view com­mands;
Discovers fair ab­odes not made with hands—
Abodes of peace.

Terrestrial obj­ects, di­sen­chant­ed there,
Lose all their pow­er to daz­zle or en­snare;
One on­ly object then seems worth our care—
To win the race.

This is the mount where Christ’s dis­ci­ples see
The glo­ry of the in­car­na­te De­ity;
’Tis here they find it good in­deed to be,
And view His face.

A new cre­ation here be­gins to rise;
Fruits of the Spir­it, flow­ers of pa­ra­dise,
Watered from Hea­ven, in full and sure sup­plies,
By streams of grace.

Towards this blest spot the Spir­it bends His ear,
The fer­vent pray­er, the con­trite sigh to hear;
To bid the mourn­er ban­ish ev­ery fear,
And go in peace.

Here may the com­fort­less and wea­ry find
One who can cure the sick­ness of the mind;
One who delights the brok­en heart to bind—
The Prince of Peace.

Savior! the sin­ner’s friend, our hope, our all!
Here teach us hum­bly at Thy feet to fall;
Here on Thy name, with love and faith to call
For par­don­ing grace.

Ne’er let the glo­ry from this spot re­move,
Till, num­bered with Thy ran­somed flock above,
We cease to wait, but ne­ver cease to love
The throne of grace.