THERE is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners,...

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

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

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

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.

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

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

' 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.