L UTON T UNE

Jesus, how heav'nly is the place
Where thy dear people wait for thee!
Where the rich fountain of thy grace
Stands ever open, full and free.

Hungry, and poor, and lame, and blind,
Hither thy blood-bought children fly;
In thy deep wounds a balsam find,
And live, while they behold thee die.

Hear they forget their doubts and fears,
While thy sharp sorrows meet their eyes;
And bless the hand that dries their tears,
And with his own their grief supplies.

Oh, the vast myst'rics of thy love!
How high, how deep, how wide, it rolls
Its fountain springs in heav'n above,
Its streams revive our drooping souls!