The gladsome tidings of Thy heavenly grace—
Which for the ransom of a captive race
With all its matchless miracle of grief,
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!

In sin conceived, corrupt in thought and deed,
I come confessing my sad plight, but plead
And blood for sinners shed, yea, for the chief.
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!

Today I come: I dare no longer wait.
Of grace this hour may pass, and I too late
And even here my sojourn must be brief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!

My sorrow-laden soul Thou shalt receive,
Let not, O Lord, my hesitancy grieve
For in Thee only can I find relief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!

White are the fields to harvest even now,
The standing corn before the reapers bow:
Lord of the harvest, in Thy heavenly sheaf,
For I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!

Soon Thou shalt come, and that shall close the gate
To scorners all, who then, alas, too late
When on the world Thou comest as a thief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!