1 How pleasant is the sound of praise!
It well becomes the saints of God;
Should we refuse our songs to raise,
The stones might tell our shame abroad.
2 For Him Who washed us in His blood,
Let us our sweetest songs prepare;
He sought us wandering far from God,
And now preserves us by His care.
3 One string there is of sweetest tone,
Reserved for sinners saved by grace;
'Tis sacred to one class alone
And touched by one peculiar race.
4 Though angels may with rapture see
How mercy flows in Jesus' blood,
It is not theirs to prove, as we,
The cleansing virtue of this flood.
5 Though angels praise the heavenly King,
And worship Him as God alone,
We can with exultation sing,
"He wears our nature on the throne."
6 Lord, we adore Thy wondrous love,
Which brought Thee here to bleed and die
That Thou lost sinners may restore
And to the Father bring them nigh.