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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.
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