Sufficiency of Pardon. Isa. 1. 18; 1 John 1. 7
I. Watts C.M.
Why does your face, ye humble souls,
Those mournful colours wear?
What doubts are these that try your faith,
And nourish your despair?
[What though your numerous sins exceed
The stars that fill the skies,
And, aiming at the eternal throne,
Like pointed mountains rise?]
[What though your mighty guilt beyond
The wide creation swell,
And has its cursed foundations laid
Low as the deeps of hell?]
See, here an endless ocean flows
Of never-failing grace;
Behold, a dying Saviour’s veins
The sacred flood increase!
It rises high, and drowns the hills;
Has neither shore nor bound;
Now if we search to find our sins,
Our sins can ne’er be found.
Awake, our hearts, adore the grace
That buries all our faults;
And pardoning blood that swells above
Our follies and our thoughts.