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 Lord, we adore the wondrous love
Which brought Thee here to bleed and die;
Soon shall we meet in heaven above,
And sing Thy praises in the sky.
