There Is A Fountain Filled With Blood
Drawn From Emmanuel’s Veins;
And Sinners, Plunged Beneath That Flood,
Lose All Their Guilty Stains.
The Dying Thief Rejoiced To See
That Fountain In His Day;
And There May I, Though Vile As He,
Wash All My Sins Away.
O Dying Lamb, Thy Precious Blood
Shall Never Lose Its Power,
Till All The Ransomed Church Of God
Be Saved To Sin No More.
Ever Since, By Faith, I Saw The Stream
Thy Flowing Wounds Supply,
Redeeming Love Has Been My Theme
And Shall Be Till I Die.
Then In A Nobler, Sweeter Song
I’ll Sing Thy Power To Save,
When This Poor Lisping, Stammering Tongue
Lies Silent In The Grave.
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