S WINFORD Tune .

Hark! from the cross, a gracious voice
Salutes my ravish'd ears —
" Rejoice, thou ransom'd soul, rejoice,
" And dry those falling tea's!"

Amaz'd, I turn, grown strangely bold,
This wondrous thing to see;
And there my dying Lord behold,
Stretch'd on the bloody tree!

" Sinner," he cries, " behold the head
" This thorny wreath entwines;
Look on these wounded hands, and read
" Thy name in crimson lines:

These wounds I bear, these pains I feel,
" This anguish rends my breast,
That I may save thy soul from hell,
" And give thee endless rest."

The pow'r, the sweetness, of that voice
My stony heart can move,
" Take me in Christ my Lord rejoice"
And melt my soul to love.

No more my harp neglected lies
With silent, broken strings;
From earth my soul has learn'd to rise,
And mounts on eagles' wings.

My dying Saviour's wondrous love
On earth employs my tongue;
And when I walk in white above
That love shall be my song.