212    C.M.     Isaac Watts
Sufficiency of Pardon. Isa. 1. 18; 1 John 1. 7

1 Why does your face, ye humble souls,
  Those mournful colours wear?
  What doubts are these that try your faith,
  And nourish your despair?

2 [What though your numerous sins exceed
  The stars that fill the skies,
  And, aiming at the eternal throne,
  Like pointed mountains rise?]

3 [What though your mighty guilt beyond
  The wide creation swell,
  And has its cursed foundations laid
  Low as the deeps of hell?]

4 See, here an endless ocean flows
  Of never-failing grace;
  Behold, a dying Saviour’s veins
  The sacred flood increase!

5 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.

6 Awake, our hearts, adore the grace
  That buries all our faults;
  And pardoning blood that swells above
  Our follies and our thoughts.