Bliss of the Purified

Verse 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,
And point to the print of the nails in His hand.

Verse 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,
Who lifted upon me the light of His face.

Verse 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’ own breast,
No tears but may dry them on Jesus’ own breast.

Verse 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,”
And triumph in death in the “Mighty to Save.”

Frank Bottome/Thomas Koschat, arr.

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