And does thy labouring bosom heave?
Thy heart for Jesus sigh?
Though guilt and doublings make thee grieve
Still for His mercy cry.
If there’s a space within thy breast,
That none but Christ can fill;
He died, and therefore, can give rest;
He’s true, and, therefore, will.
Did ever sinner sink to woe,
Thirsting for pardoning grace?
Ten thousand voices answer,
No! None die that seek His face.
Go then, poor leper, cast thy soul
Down at His nail-pierced feet;
He’ll raise thee up; He’ll make thee whole,
And all thy foes defeat.
His word, His cross, His blood, His pain,
His rising from the grave,
Ring through the earth again, again,
He’s willing now to save.