Dear LORD, 'tis finish'd! and now he

That copied it, presents it Thee.

'Twas Thine first, and to Thee returns,

From Thee it shined, though here it burns.

If the sun rise on rocks, is't right,

To call it their inherent light?

No, nor can I say, this is mine,--

For, dearest JESUS, 'tis all Thine,

As Thy clothes,--when Thou with clothes wert clad--

Both light from Thee, and virtue had;

And now--as then--within this place

Thou to poor rags dost still give grace.

My dear Redeemer, the world's light,

And life too, and my heart's delight!

For all Thy mercies and Thy truth,

Shew'd to me in my sinful youth,

For my sad failings and my wild

Murmurings at Thee, when most mild;

For all my secret faults, and each

Frequent relapse and wilful breach,

For all designs meant against Thee,

And every publish'd vanity

Which Thou divinely hast forgiven,

While Thy blood wash'd me white as Heaven,--

I nothing have to give to Thee,

But this Thy own gift, given to me.

Refuse it not! for now Thy token

Can tell Thee where a heart is broken.