The poem
Of all the gifts Thine hand bestows, Thou Giver of all good! Not heaven 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 power apply, Our hearts refuse to see, And weak, as a distemper'd 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 Saviour, and the power That makes Him precious too.