How sad our state by nature is!
Our sin -- how deep it stains!
And Satan binds our captive minds,
Fast in his slavish chains.

2 But there's a voice of sovereign grace
Sounds from the sacred word; --
"Ho! ye despairing sinners! come
And trust a faithful Lord."

3 My soul obeys the gracious call
And runs to this relief;
I would believe thy promise, Lord!
Oh! help my unbelief.

4 To the blest fountain of thy blood,
Incarnate God! I fly;
Here let me wash my spotted soul,
From crimes of deepest dye.

5 A guilty, weak, and helpless worm,
On thy kind arms I fall;
Be thou my strength and righteousness
My Jesus, and my all.

Isaac Watts, 1707.