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.