If I wash at the fount of my own tears, I shall never be clean,
Scrub at the spot with all that Iíve got, it can never out;
Repent until spent,
Pray with all might,
Examine myself day and night and be sorrowful,
It avails my soul nothing, nothing.
Because in nothing but blood
Will I be pure, spotless, faultless,
Presentable at my Fatherís throne,
Perfectly reconciled, owner of perfect peace.
For when that blood came dripping down, His own blood, my Savior,
All my guilt became as none, all my sins away from me;
No other would do,
No cross ever bear
Weight so great or price so dear, and nothing
But the Masterís grief-ruptured heartís
Blood spilled over me can be
Efficacious for every stain, all offense
Against Him and Heaven: sin that I hate,
Nothing, nothing, nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Word count 148
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