O, bliss of the purified! bliss of the free!
I'm plunged in the crimson tide opened for me!
O'er sin and uncleanness exulting I stand,
And point to the print of the nails in His hand.

O, bliss of the purified! Jesus is mine!
No longer in dread condemnation I pine;
In conscious salvation I sing of His grace,
Who lifteth upon me the smiles of His face.

O, bliss of the purified! bliss of the pure!
No wound hath the soul that His blood cannot cure,
No sorrow-bowed head but may sweetly find rest,
No tears but may dry them on Jesus's breast.

O, Jesus, the Crucified! Thee will I sing!
My blessed Redeemer! my God, and my King!
My soul filled with rapture shall shout o'er the grave,
And triumph in death in The Mighty To Save.

O, sing of His mighty love,
Sing of His mighty love,
Sing of His mighty love, mighty to save.