Author:		Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Musician:		Joan J. Pinkston, b. 1947

How sad our state by nature is,
Our sin how deep it stains;
And Satan binds our captive minds
Fast in his slavish chains.
But there's a voice of sov'reign grace
Sounds from the sacred Word,
"Ho! ye despairing sinners come,
And trust upon the Lord."

My soul obeys th'almighty call,
And runs to this relief;
I would believe Thy promise, Lord;
O help my unbelief.
Unto the fountain of Thy blood,
Incarnate God, I fly;
Here let me wash my spotted soul
From crimes of deepest dye.

Stretch out Thine arm, victorious King,
My reigning sins subdue;
And drive the dragon from his seat,
With all his hellish crew.
A guilty weak and helpless worm,
On Thy kind arms I fall,
Be Thou my strength and righteousness,
My Jesus, and my all.