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397 The Fountain

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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.

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 pow’r to save,
When this poor lisping, stamm’ring tongue
Lies silent in the grave.


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