(Zecheriah, xiii.1) There is a fountain fill'd with blood, Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains. The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; And there have I, as vile as he, Wash'd all my sins away. Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransom'd church of God Be saved, to sin no more. E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme, And shall be till I die. Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I'll sing Thy power to save; When this poor lisping stammering tongue Lies silent in the grave. Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared (Unworthy though I be) For me a blood-bought free reward, A golden harp for me! 'Tis strung and tuned for endless years, And form'd by power divine, To sound in God the Father's ears No other name but Thine.