A Man there is, a real Man,
With wounds still gaping wide,
From which rich streams of blood once ran,
In hands, and feet, and side.
['Tis no wild fancy of our brains,
No metaphor we speak;
The same dear Man in heaven reigns
That suffered for our sake.]
This wondrous Man of whom we tell,
Is true Almighty God;
He bought our souls from death and hell;
The price, his own heart's blood.
That human heart he still retains,
Though throned in highest bliss;
And feels each tempted member's pains;
For our affliction's his.
Come, then, repenting sinner, come;
Approach with humble faith;
Owe what thou wilt, the total sum
Is cancelled by his death.
His blood can cleanse the blackest soul,
And wash our guilt away;
He will present us sound and whole,
In that tremendous day.
Note:
In the seventeenth century, and in earlier centuries, the colour of sin on the inside of a person was black - not derivative of a person's skin colour but the opposite of white which was a picture of purity.
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