The Lord, Our Lord, How Rich His Grace!

The Lord

our Lord

how rich His grace!

What stores of sov­er­eign love

For hum­ble souls

that seek His face

And to His foot­stool move!

He pleads the cause of all His saints

When foes against them rise;

He list­ens to their sad com­plaints

And wipes their stream­ing eyes.

He takes away that dread­ful cup

Of fu­ry and of plagues

Which jus­tice sen­tenced them to drink

And wring the bit­ter dregs.

He gave it to their Sav­ior’s hand

And filled it to the brim;

Their Sav­ior drank the li­quid death

That they might live by Him.

Now take the cup of life

He cries

Where heav’n­ly bless­ings flow:

Drink deep

nor fear to drain the springs

To which the draught ye owe.

We drink

and feel our life re­newed

And all our woes for­get:

We drink

till that trans­por­ting hour

When we our Lord shall meet.