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C. M.

Our sin the cause of Christ's death.


And now the scales have left mine eyes,

Now I begin to see:

Oh the cursed deeds my sins have done!

What murd'rous things they be!

Were these the traitors, dearest Lord,

That thy fair body tore?

Monsters, that stained those heav'nly limbs

With floods of purple gore!

Was it for crimes that I had done

My dearest Lord was slain,

When justice seized God's only Son,

And put his soul to pain?

Forgive my guilt, O Prince of peace,

I'll wound my God no more:

Hence from my heart, ye sins, begone,

For Jesus I adore.

Furnish me, Lord, with heav'nly arms

From grace's magazine,

And I'll proclaim eternal war

With every darling sin.

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