Isaac Watts, 1674-1748
Happy the man to whom his God|
No more imputes his sin,
But, washed in the Redeemer's blood,
Hath made his garments clean!
2. Happy beyond expression he
3. His spirit hates deceit and lies,
4. While I my inward guilt suppressed,|
No quiet could I find;
Thy wrath lay burning in my breast,
And racked my tortured mind.
5. Then I confessed my troubled thoughts,
6. This shall invite thy saints to pray;
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