By A Collection of Hymns

      C.M.
      1 THERE is a fountain filled with blood
      Drawn from Immanuel's veins;
      And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
      Lose all their guilty stains.

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

      3 O dying Lamb, thy precious blood
      Shall never lose its power,
      Till all the ransomed church of God
      Be saved to sin no more.

      4 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.

      5 Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
      I'll sing thy power to save;
      When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
      Lies silent in the grave.

      6 Lord, I believe thou hast prepared,
      Unworthy though I be,
      For me a blood-bought free reward,
      A golden harp for me!

      7 '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.