Oh, Bliss of the Purified

Oh

bliss of the pu­ri­fied

bliss of the free

I plunge in the crim­son tide op­ened for me;

O’er sin and un­clean­ness

Exulting I stand

And point to the print of the nails in His hand.

Oh

sing of His migh­ty love

Sing of His migh­ty love

Sing of His migh­ty love

Mighty to save.

Oh

bliss of the pu­ri­fied! Je­sus is mine

No long­er in dread con­dem­na­tion I pine;

In con­scious sal­va­tion

I sing of His grace

Who lift­ed up­on me the light of His face.

Oh

bliss of the pu­ri­fied! bliss of the pure!

No wound hath the soul that His blood can­not cure;

No sor­row-bowed head

But may sweet­ly find rest

No tears—but may dry them on Je­sus’ breast.

O Je­sus the Cru­ci­fied! Thee will I sing

My blessèd Re­deem­er

my God and my king;

My soul

filled with rap­ture

Shall shout o’er the grave

And tri­umph in death in the Migh­ty to Save.