Oh, bliss of the purified! bliss of the free!
I plunge in the crimson tide opened for me!
O'er sin and uncleanness exulting I stand,
And point to the print of the nails in his hand.

Cho. -- Oh, sing of his mighty love,
Sing of his mighty love,
Sing of his mighty love, mighty to save.

2 Oh, bliss of the purified! Jesus is mine!
No longer in dread condemnation I pine:
In conscious salvation I sing of his grace,
Who lifteth upon me the smiles of his face.

3 Oh, bliss of the purified! bliss of the pure!
No wound hath the soul that his blood cannot cure;
No sorrow-bowed head but may sweetly find rest;
No tears but may dry them on Jesus' breast.

4 Oh, Jesus, the crucified! thee will I sing!
My blessed Redeemer! my God and my King;
My soul, filled with rapture, shall shout o'er the grave, And triumph in death in the mighty to save.

Rev. F. Bottome.