Sitting around our Father's board,

We raise our tuneful breath;

Our faith beholds her dying Lord,

And dooms our sins to death.]

We see the blood of Jesus shed,

Whence all our pardons rise

The sinner views th' atonement made,

And loves the sacrifice.

Thy cruel thorns, thy shameful cross,

Procure us heav'nly crowns;

Our highest gain springs from thy loss,

Our healing from thy wounds.

O! 'tis impossible that we,

Who dwell in feeble clay,

Should equal suff'rings bear for thee,

Or equal thanks repay.