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When Jesus’ precious name, so pure, so high,
Is cast in vain upon the heedless air,
The heart of those redeemed cannot forbear
But split in twain beneath a mournful sky.
A sacred sound, once sung by heavens’ choir,
Profaned by lips that know not what they say,
Becomes a wound where grace has lost its way,
A thorn to pierce the soul with quiet fire.

Yet still the faithful hold that name most dear,
A balm for sin, a light through darkest strife,
And weep when careless tongues its glory mar.
For in that word resides their hope, their life,
A promise whispered soft through every tear,
To mend the riven heart and guide it far.

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