The King is just, and justly He decrees,
To quell all offense and weigh every deed,
His righteous demands not one of us met.
Alas, under His rage I dwell in threat,
Of utter destruction; Hell opens wide,
Thirsts for my soul and my sure demise.
The King planned my execution: His Bow,
To vanquish my life and lay me low.

His wrathful Bow is aimed at my heart,
Eager, He awaits to release. But hark!
An intercessor steps in; takes the place,
Of my due judgment and His mighty quake.
The arrow ‘twas meant for me to endure,
To pierce my heart and leave me deplored,
But the Innocent Son took not just one,
But three grim arrows to say, “it is done.”

Three arrows to pin his hands and feet,
Three arrows to place my sin on a tree,
Three arrows to slay the Son of God,
Three arrows to spare the wrath of His Rod,
Three arrows to display in darkness: glory,
Three arrows to mortify sin; to make us holy,
Three arrows to ransom his children to be,
And three arrows to pardon and pay my fee.