We sing the praise of him who died,

We sing the praise of him who died,
Of him who died upon the cross;
The sinner's Hope let men deride;
For this we count the world but dross.

The cross, it takes our guilt away;
It holds the fainting spirit up;
It cheers with hope the gloomy day,
And sweetens every bitter cup.

It makes the coward spirit brave,
And nerves the feeble arm for fight;
It takes its terror from the grave,
And gilds the bed of death with light.

The balm of life, the cure of woe;
The measure and the pledge of love;
The sinner's refuge here below;
The angel's theme in heaven above.