Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!
Not heav'n itself a richer knows,
Than my Redeemer's blood.
Faith too, the blood receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain:
Else sweetly, as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.
Till thou thy teaching pow'r apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemper'd eye,
Shut out the view of thee.
Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What mis'ry we endure!
Yet fly that hand, from which alone,
We could expect a cure.
We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;
The precious Saviour, and the pw'r
That makes him precious too.
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