74—For mercies countless as the sands
For mercies, countless as the sands,
Which I daily receive
From Jesus, my Redeemer’s hands,
My soul, what canst thou give?
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.
Yet this acknowledgement I’ll make
For all He has bestow’d
Salvation’s sacred cup I’ll take,
I’ll call upon my God.
The best return for one like me,
So wretched and so poor,
Is from His gifts to draw a plea,
And ask Him still for more.
I cannot serve Him as I ought
No works have I to boast;
Yet would I glory in the thought
That I shall owe Him most.