I
For mercies, countless as the sands,
Which daily I receive
From Jesus my Redeemer’s hands,
My soul, what canst thou give?
II
Alas! from such a heart as mine
What can I bring him forth?
My best is stain’d and dyed with sin,
My all is nothing worth.
III
Yet this acknowledgment I’ll make
For all he has bestow’d—
Salvation’s sacred cup I’ll take,
And call upon my God.
IV
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.
V
I cannot serve him as I ought,
No works have I to boast;
Yet would I glory in the thought
That I should owe him most.