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C. M.

Sufficiency of pardon.


Why does your face, ye humble souls,

Those mournful colors wear?

What doubts are these that waste your faith,

And nourish your despair?

What though your num'rous sins exceed

The stars that fill the skies,

And aiming at th' eternal throne,

Like pointed mountains rise:

What though your mighty guilt beyond

The wide creation swell,

And has its cursed foundations laid

Low as the deeps of hell:

See here an endless ocean flows

Of never-failing grace;

Behold a dying Savior's veins

The sacred flood increase.

It rises high, and drowns the hills,

Has neither shore nor bound:

Now, if we search to find our sins,

Our sins can ne'er be found.

Awake, our hearts, adore the grace

That buries all our faults;

And pard'ning blood, that swells above

Our follies and our thoughts.

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