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2.
Oh, bliss of the purified ! Jesus is mine, |
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No longer in dread condemnation I pine; |
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In conscious salvation I sing of His grace, |
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Who lifted upon me the light of His face. |
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3-
Oh, bliss of the purified ! bliss of the pure ! |
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No wound hath the soul that His blood cannot cure; |
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No sorrow-bowed head but may sweetly find rest, |
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No tears—but may dry them on Jesus' breast. |
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4-
O Jesus the crucified ! Thee will I sing, |
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My blessed Redeemer, my God and my King; |
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My soul, filled with rapture, shall shout o'er the grave, |
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And triumph in death in the " Mighty to Sa\ e." |
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