Sunday Hymn: O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing

O for a thou­sand tongues to sing
My great Re­deem­er’s praise,
The glo­ries of my God and king,
The tri­umphs of His grace!

My gra­cious mas­ter and my God,
Assist me to pro­claim,
To spread through all the earth abroad
The hon­ors of Thy name.

Jesus! the name that charms our fears,
That bids our sor­rows cease;
’Tis mu­sic in the sin­ner’s ears,
’Tis life, and health, and peace.

He breaks the pow­er of can­celed sin,
He sets the pri­son­er free;
His blood can make the foul­est clean,
His blood availed for me.

He speaks, and, list­en­ing to His voice,
New life the dead re­ceive,
The mourn­ful, brok­en hearts re­joice,
The hum­ble poor be­lieve.

Hear Him, ye deaf; His praise, ye dumb,
Your loos­ened tongues em­ploy;
Ye blind, be­hold your Sav­ior come,
And leap, ye lame, for joy.

In Christ your head, you then shall know,
Shall feel your sins for­giv­en;
Anticipate your heav­en be­low,
And own that love is heav­en.

Glory to God, and praise and love
Be ev­er, ev­er giv­en,
By saints be­low and saints ab­ove,
The church in earth and Heav­en.

On this glad day the glo­ri­ous sun
Of right­eous­ness arose;
On my be­night­ed soul He shone
And filled it with re­pose.

Sudden ex­pired the le­gal strife,
’Twas then I ceased to grieve;
My se­cond, real, liv­ing life
I then be­gan to live.

Then with my heart I first be­lieved,
Believed with faith di­vine,
Power with the Ho­ly Ghost re­ceived
To call the Sav­ior mine.

I felt my Lord’s aton­ing blood
Close to my soul ap­plied;
Me, me He loved, the Son of God,
For me, for me He died!

I found and owned His pro­mise true,
Ascertained of my part,
My par­don passed in Heav­en I knew
When writ­ten on my heart.

Look un­to Him, ye na­tions, own
Your God, ye fall­en race;
Look, and be saved through faith alone,
Be jus­ti­fied by grace.

See all your sins on Je­sus laid:
The Lamb of God was slain,
His soul was once an of­fer­ing made
For ev­ery soul of man.

Awake from guil­ty na­ture’s sleep,
And Christ shall give you light,
Cast all your sins in­to the deep,
And wash the Æthi­op white.

Harlots and pub­li­cans and thieves
In holy tri­umph join!
Saved is the sin­ner that be­lieves
From crimes as great as mine.

Murderers and all ye hell­ish crew,
Ye sons of lust and pride,
Believe the Sav­ior died for you;
For me the Sav­ior died.

With me, your chief, ye then shall know,
Shall feel your sins for­giv­en;
Anticipate your heav­en below,
And own that love is heav­en.

—Charles Wesley