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.