1 Now, my soul, thy voice upraising,
Tell in sweet and mournful strain
How the Crucified, enduring
Grief and wounds, and dying pain,
Freely of his love was offered,
Sinless was for sinners slain.
2 See, his hands and feet are fastened!
So he makes his people free;
Not a wound whence Blood is flowing
But a fount of grace shall be;
Yea, the very nails which nail him
Nail us also to the Tree.
3 Jesu, may those precious fountains
Drink to thirsting souls afford;
Let them be our cup and healing,
And at length our great reward:
So a ransomed world shall ever
Praise thee, its redeeming Lord.
Source: The New English Hymnal #88
|First Line:||Now, my soul, thy voice upraising, Tell in sweet and mournful strain|
|Title:||Now, my soul, thy voice upraising|
|Latin Title:||Prome vocem, mens, canoram|
|Author:||Claude de Santeul|
|Translator:||H. W. Baker|