The Mystery of Grace

In evil long I took delight,
Unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopped my wild career.

I saw One hanging on a tree
In agony and blood;
He fixed His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Sure never, till my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with his death,
Tho' not a word He spoke.

My conscience felt and owned the guilt
And plunged me in despair;
I saw my sins His blood had spilt
And helped to nail Him there.

A second look he gave which said,
"I freely all forgive.
This blood is for thy ransom paid;
I die that thou may'st live."

Thus, while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,
Such is the mystery of grace;
It seals my pardon too.
--John Newton

Pastor Darrell Roe