The poem
To tell the Saviour all my wants, How pleasing is the task! Nor less to praise Him when He grants Beyond what I can ask.
My laboring spirit vainly seeks To tell but half the joy, With how much tenderness He speaks, And helps me to reply.
Nor were it wise, nor should I choose, Such secrets to declare; Like precious wines their taste they lose, Exposed to open air.
But this with boldness I proclaim, Nor care if thousands hear, Sweet is the ointment of His name, Not life is half so dear.
And can you frown, my former friends, Who knew what once I was, And blame the song that thus commends The Man who bore the cross?
Trust me, I draw the likeness true, And not as fancy paints; Such honor may He give to you, For such have all His saints.