For mercies, countless as the sands Which daily I receive, From Jesus my redeemer's hands, My soul, what canst thou give?

Alsa, 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 scared cup I'll take And 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 works have I glory in the thought That I shall owe Him most.