1 When Israel's grieving tribes complain'd,
With fiery serpents greatly pain'd,
A serpent straight the prophet made
Of molten brass, to view display'd.

2 Around the fainting crowds attend,
To heaven their mournful sighs ascend;
They hope, they look, while from the pole,
Descends a pow'r that makes them whole.

3 But, O, what healing to the heart,
Doth our Redeemer's cross impart!
What life, by faith, our souls receive!
What pleasures do his sorrows give!

4 Still may I view the Saviour's cross,
And other objects count but loss:
Here still be fix'd my feasted eyes,
Enraptur'd with his sacrifice.

5 Jesus the Saviour! balmy name!
Thy worth my tongue would now proclaim;
By thy atonement set me free,
My life, my hope, is all from thee.