Peculiar are the saints,

Peculiar are the saints,
And God does them esteem;
Though numerous are their wants,
They all things have in him;
He is their treasure and their joy,
Nor can they ever starve or die.

Loved from eternity,
And chosen in the Lamb,
The eternal One-in-Three,
Jehovah, Great I AM,
Himself has bound, by holy ties,
To take them up beyond the skies.

Peculiar is the grace,
Which makes their bliss secure;
Its beauties none can trace,
Nor know its saving power;
None but this little favoured few
Can know what endless love can do.

Bought with the blood of Christ,
(Peculiar price indeed!)
Their God becomes their Priest,
And they from sin are freed;
Peculiar must the blessing be,
Which makes insolvent wretches free.

Their birth is from above;
Peculiar indeed;
Begotten, not of blood,
But of immortal seed;
From Christ, their Head, their life proceeds,
And to him it most surely leads.

They live, and live to God,
A life that's known by few;
Their Father's staff and rod,
Support and comfort too;
Christ is their Life, nor can they die,
For hell can ne'er their life destroy.