Nature with open volume stands,
To spread its Maker’s praise abroad;
And every labor of His hands
Shows something worthy of our God.

But in the grace that rescued us
His brightest form of glory shines;
‘Tis fairest drawn upon the cross
In precious blood and crimson lines.

Here His whole name appears complete.
Nor wit can guess, nor reason prove,
Which of the letters best is writ,
The pow’r, the wisdom, or the love.

We would forever speak His name
In sounds to mortal ears unknown,
With angels join to praise the Lamb,
And worship at His Father’s throne.