1 Nature with open Volume stands,
To spread her Maker's Praise abroad;
And ev'ry Labour of his Hands
Shows something worthy of a God.

2 But in the Grace that rescu'd Man,
His brightest Form of Glory shines;
Here on the Cross 'tis fairest drawn,
In precious Blood and crimson Lines.

[3 Here his whole Name appears complete;
Nor Wit can guess, nor Reason prove
Which of the Letters best is writ,
The Power, the Wisdom, or the Love.]

4 Here I behold his inmost Heart,
Where grace and Vengeance strangely join,
Piercing his Son with sharpest Smart,
To make the purchas'd Pleasures mine.

5 O the sweet Wonders of that Cross,
Where God the Saviour lov'd and dy'd
Her noblest Life my Spirit draws
From his dear Wounds and bleeding Side.

6 I would for ever speak his Name,
In Sounds to mortal Ears unknown;
With Angels join to praise the Lamb,
And Worship at his Father's Throne.