Let ev­er­last­ing glo­ries crown
Thy head, my Sav­ior and my Lord;
Thy hands have brought sal­va­tion down,
And writ the bless­ings in Thy Word.

What if we trace the globe around,
And search from Bri­tain to Ja­pan,
There shall be no re­li­gion found
So just to God, so safe for man.

In vain the tremb­ling con­sci­ence seeks
Some so­lid ground to rest up­on;
With long des­pair the spir­it breaks,
Till we ap­ply to Christ alone.

How well Thy bless­èd truths agree!
How wise and ho­ly Thy com­mands!
Thy pro­mis­es, how firm they be!
How firm our hope and com­fort stands!

Not the feigned fields of heath’n­ish bliss
Could raise such plea­sures in the mind;
Nor does the Turk­ish pa­ra­dise
Pretend to joys so well re­fined.

Should all the forms that men de­vise
Assault my faith with trea­cher­ous art,
I’d call them va­ni­ty and lies,
And bind the Gos­pel to my heart.