His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan His work in vain : God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

THERE is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins !

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb! thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power,

Till all the ransom'd 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 power to save;

When this poor, lisping, stammering 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 power divine,

To sound in God the Father's ears

No other name but Thine.