Sunday Hymn: There Is a Green Hill Far Away

There is a green hill far away,
Outside a ci­ty wall,
Where the dear Lord was cru­ci­fied,
Who died to save us all.

We may not know, we can­not tell,
What pains He had to bear;
But we be­lieve it was for us
He hung and suf­fered there.

He died that we might be for­giv’n,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to Heav’n,
Saved by His pre­cious blood.

There was no oth­er good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He on­ly could un­lock the gate
Of Hea­ven and let us in.

O dear­ly, dear­ly has He loved,
And we must love Him, too,
And trust in His re­deem­ing blood,
And try His works to do.

—Cecil F. Alexander

Sunday Hymn: All Things Bright and Beautiful

Refrain

All things bright and beau­ti­ful,
All crea­tures great and small,
All things wise and won­der­ful:
The Lord God made them all.

Each lit­tle flow­er that op­ens,
Each lit­tle bird that sings,
He made their glow­ing col­ors,
He made their ti­ny wings.

The pur­ple head­ed mount­ains,
The river run­ning by,
The sun­set and the morn­ing
That bright­ens up the sky.

The cold wind in the win­ter,
The plea­sant sum­mer sun,
The ripe fruits in the gar­den,
He made them ev­ery one.

The tall trees in the green­wood,
The mea­dows where we play,
The rush­es by the wa­ter,
To ga­ther ev­ery day.

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Al­migh­ty,
Who has made all things well.

—Cecil F. Alexander

Sunday Hymn: And Did the Holy and the Just

And did the ho­ly and the just,
The So­ver­eign of the skies,
Stoop down to wretch­ed­ness and dust,
That guil­ty worms might rise?

Yes, the Re­deem­er left His throne,
His ra­di­ant throne on high,
(Surprising mer­cy! love un­known!)
To suf­fer, bleed and die.

He took the dy­ing trai­tor’s place,
And suf­fered in his stead;
For man (O mi­ra­cle of grace!),
For man the Sav­ior bled!

Dear Lord, what heav’n­ly won­ders dwell
In Thy aton­ing blood?
By this are sin­ners snatched from hell,
And re­bels brought to God.

Jesus, my soul, ador­ing, bends
To love so full, so free;
And may I hope that love ex­tends
Its sac­red pow­er to me?

What glad re­turn can I im­part,
For fa­vors so di­vine?
O take my all—this worth­less heart,
And make it on­ly Thine.

—Anne Steele