O, would that I did always rest
So sweetly in the merits of
My Savior, from Whose battered breast
Flow streams of fear-outcasting love,
As these two weeks of late have I.
The poor in spirit’s uttered cry
Of shame becomes a shout of joy,
Distresses vexed which did annoy,
As Death itself was made to die
When Christ absorbed the wrath of God.
So through the doorposts stepping, I,
Where “Victory” is scrawled in blood,
Do freely into Freedom go
When Substitution’s grace I know.
wow