by John Newton

In evil long I took delight,
Unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopped my wild career.

O can it be upon a tree
The Savior died for me
My soul is thrill, my heart is filled
To think He died for me.

I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood;
He fixed His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Sure never till my last breath,
Shall I forget that look!
It seemed to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.

My conscience felt and owned the guilt
And plunged me in despair
I felt my sins His blood had spilt
And helped to nail Him there.

Alas! I know not what I did,
But now my tears are vain:
Where shall my trembling soul be hid?
For I the Lord have slain.

A second look He gave, which said,
"I freely all forgive;
This blood is for your ransom paid;
I die that you may live."

Thus while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too!