The Hidden Life

To tell the Saviour all my wants,How pleasing is the task!Nor less to praise Him when He grantsBeyond what I can ask.

My labouring spirit vainly seeksTo 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 proclaimNor 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 commendsThe 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.