We sing the praise of Him who died,
Of Him who died up­on the cross;
The sin­ner’s hope let men deride,
For this we count the world but loss.

Inscribed up­on the cross we see
In shin­ing let­ters, God is love;
He bears our sins up­on the tree;
He brings us mer­cy from above.

The cross! it takes our guilt away;
It holds the faint­ing spi­rit up;
It cheers with hope the gloomy day,
And sweet­ens ev­ery bit­ter cup.

It makes the cow­ard spi­rit brave,
And nerves the fee­ble arm for fight;
It takes the ter­ror from the grave,
And gilds the bed of death with light.

The balm of life, the cure of woe,
The mea­sure and the pledge of love,
The sin­ner’s re­fuge here be­low,
The an­gels’ theme in Heav’n above.

To Christ, who won for sin­ners grace
By bit­ter grief and ang­uish sore,
Be praise from all the ran­somed race
Forever and for­ev­er­more.