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 labouring 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 honour may He give to you,
For such have all His saints.