His faithful servants all day long,
Do to repentance us exhort,
Yet nightly raise the mournful song,
“Who hath believed our report?”
It was for us He was accused,
Sank under sorrows not His own,
Was buffeted, chastis’d, and bruis’d,
To raise us rebels to a throne.
The nails, the hammer, and the spear,
And reed, with which His head was smote,
All cry in the deaf sinner’s ear,
“Who hath believed our report?”
Yes! both the pulpit and the press,
The thunder of His power proclaim,
Commend His blood and righteousness,
And offer mercy in His name.
Yet some are always standing by,
Of holy things to make a sport,
And weeping preachers yet may cry,
“Who hath believed our report?”
Some have believed this report,—
To them He hath “His arm reveal’d;”
To Him their lives they now devote,
For “by His stripes their souls are heal’d!”
And on the last important day,
When all shall be to judgment brought,
Thrice happy those who then can say,
We have believed this report.
But woe to all ungodly men,
Who wonder how these things can be;
They’ll wonder more, and perish then,—
Too late they will their folly see.
For them, alas, no joys remain,
The Lord of life will cut them short;
And they shall weep and wish in vain,
They had believed our report!