1 There is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains. 2 The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; And there may I, though vile as he, Wash all my sins away. 3 Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransomed Church of God Be saved, to sin no more. 4 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. 5 Then in a nobler, sweeter song I'll sing Thy power to save. When this poor lisping, stammering tongue Lies silent in the grave. 6 Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared, Unworthy though I be, For me a blood-bought free reward, A golden harp for me. 7 Tis strung and tuned for endless years. And formed, by power divine, To sound in God the Father’s ear’s No other name but Thine.