Now, My Soul, Thy Voice Upraising

Now

my soul

thy voice up­rais­ing

Tell in sweet and mourn­ful strain

How the Cru­ci­fied

en­dur­ing

Grief

and wounds

and dy­ing pain

Freely of His love was of­fered

Sinless was for sin­ners slain.

Scourged with un­re­lent­ing fu­ry

For the sins which we de­plore

By His liv­id stripes He heals us

Raising us to fall no more;

All our bruis­es gent­ly sooth­ing

Binding up the bleed­ing sore.

See! His hands and feet are fast­ened!

So He makes His peo­ple free;

Not a wound whence blood is flow­ing

But a fount of grace shall be;

Yea

the ve­ry nails which nail Him

Nail us al­so to the tree.

Through His heart the spear is pierc­ing

Though His foes have seen Him die;

Blood and wa­ter thence are stream­ing

In a tide of mys­te­ry

Water from our guilt to cleanse us

Blood to win us crowns on high.

Jesu

may those pre­cious fount­ains

Drink to thirst­ing souls af­ford:

Let them be our cup and heal­ing

And at length our full re­ward;

So a ran­somed world shall ev­er

Praise Thee

its re­deem­ing Lord.