Thy work, not mine, O Christ,
Speaks gladness to my heart!
It tells me all is done
It bids all fear depart:
I rest in Thee, whose work alone
Doth gloriously for sin atone.

Thy wounds, not mine, O Christ,
Can heal the bruised soul!
Thy stripes, not mine, contain
The balm that makes me whole.
I rest in Thee, whose work alone
Doth gloriously for sin atone.

Thy cross, not mine, O Christ,
Has borne the awful load
Of sins that none could bear
But the Incarnate God!
I rest in Thee, whose work alone
Doth gloriously for sin atone.

Thy death, not mine, O Christ,
Has paid the ransom, due!
Ten thousand deaths like mine
Would all have been too few.
I rest in Thee, whose work alone
Doth gloriously for sin atone.