Though I am young, I have a soul
The world can never buy;
And, while eternal ages roll,
It will not, cannot die.
For it must soar to worlds on high,
Where happy spirits dwell;
Or, buried with the wicked, lie
Deep in the grave of hell.
Pardon it, cleanse it, God of grace,
And let it righteous be;
Arrayed in Thy own holiness,
And meet to dwell with Thee.