For mercies, countless as the sands,

Which daily I receive

From Jesus, my Redeemer’s hands,

My soul what canst thou give?

Alas! from such a heart as mine,

What can I bring him forth?

My best is stained and dyed with sin,

My all is nothing worth.

Yet this acknowledgment I’ll make

For all he has bestowed;

Salvation’s sacred cup I’ll take

And call upon my God.

The best returns for one like me,

So wretched and so poor;

Is from his gifts to draw a plea,

And ask him still for more.

I cannot serve him as I ought,

No works have I to boast;

Yet would I glory in the thought

That I shall owe him most.