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 distempered eye, Shut out the view of thee. | Blind to the merits of thy Son, What misery 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 Savior, and the pow’r That makes him precious too. | |