Lord of Glo­ry, who hast bought us
With Thy life­blood as the price,
Never grudg­ing for the lost ones
That tre­men­dous sac­ri­fice;
And with that hast free­ly given
Blessings count­less as the sand,
To the un­thank­ful and the evil
With Thine own un­spar­ing hand.

Grant us hearts, dear Lord, to yield Thee
Gladly, free­ly, of Thine own.
With the sun­shine of Thy good­ness
Melt our thank­less hearts of stone.
Till our cold and self­ish natures,
Warmed by Thee, at length be­lieve
That more hap­py and more bless­èd
’Tis to give than to re­ceive.

Wondrous hon­or hast Thou given
To our hum­blest char­ity.
In Thine own mys­te­ri­ous sen­tence,
Ye have done it un­to Me.
Can it be, O gra­cious Mas­ter,
Thou dost deign for alms to sue,
Saying by Thy poor and needy,
Give as I have giv­en you?

Yes: the sor­row and the suf­fer­ing,
Which on ev­ery hand we see,
Channels are for tithes and of­fer­ings
Due by so­lemn right to Thee;
Right of which we may not rob Thee,
Debt we may not choose but pay,
Lest that face of love and pi­ty
Turn from us an­oth­er day.

Lord of Glo­ry, who hast bought us
With Thy life­blood as the price,
Never grudg­ing for the lost ones
That tre­men­dous sac­ri­fice;
Give us faith, to trust Thee bold­ly;
Hope, to stay our souls on Thee;
But O, best of all Thy grac­es,
Give us Thine own char­ity.