His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain : God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. THERE is a fountain filled with blood, And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, The dying thief rejoiced to see Dear dying Lamb! thy precious blood Till all the ransom'd church of God Be saved, to sin no more. E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I'll sing Thy power to save; When this poor, lisping, stammering tongue Lies silent in the grave. Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared, Unworthy though I be, For me a blood-bought free reward, A golden harp for me! 'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years, And formed by power divine, To sound in God the Father's ears No other name but Thine. |