Oh, Bliss of the Purified (EN 2475)

1

Oh, bliss of the purified, bliss of the free,

I plunge 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.

Oh, sing of His mighty love,

Sing of His mighty love,

Mighty to save.

2

Oh, bliss of the purified! Jesus is mine,

No longer in dread condemnation I pine;

In conscious salvation I sing of His grace,

Who lifted upon me the light of His face.

3

Oh, 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’ breast.

4

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.”