There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from EMMANUEL’S veins;

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,

Loose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day;

And there have I, as vile as he,

Washed all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood

Shall never lose its pow’r;

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved, to sin no more.

E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply:

Redeeming love has been my theme,

And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler sweeter song

I’ll sing thy pow’r to save

When this poor lisping stamm’ring tongue

Lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared

(Unworthy though I be)

For me a blood–bought free reward,

A golden harp for me!

’Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years,

And formed by pow’r divine;

To sound, in God the Father’s ears,

No other name but thine.