For mercies, countless as the sands,
         Which daily I 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 stained and dyed with sin,
         My all is nothing worth.
 

Yet this acknowledgment I’ll make
         For all he has bestowed;
Salvation’s sacred cup I’ll take
         And call upon my God.
 

The best returns 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.