I love the holy Son of God,
Who once this vale of sorrow trod,
And bore my sins, a heavy load,
Up Calv’ry’s rugged mountain.

High on the cross the Savior hung,
The sport of many an impious tongue,
While pains severe his nature wrung,
And flow’d life’s crimson fountain.

How ardent ought my love to be
To him who’s done so much for me;
My constant service, faithful, free,
And all my pow’rs employing.

In him I will, I do rejoice;
I’ll praise him with a cheerful voice,
Until the theme my tongue employs
In heav’n above, forever.

Recordings 1