Look back, my soul, with grate­ful love
On what thy God has done;
Praise Him for His un­num­bered gifts,
And praise Him for His Son.

How oft has His in­dul­gent hand
My flow­ing eye­lids dried,
And res­cued from im­pend­ing death,
When I in dan­ger cried!

When on the bed of pain I lay
With sick­ness sore op­pressed,
How oft has He as­suaged my grief,
And lulled my eyes to rest!

Back from de­struct­ion’s yawn­ing pit
At His com­mand I came;
He fed th’ex­pir­ing lamp anew,
And raised its fee­ble flame.

My brok­en spir­it He has cheered,
When torn with in­ward grief;
And, when temp­ta­tions pressed me sore,
Has brought me swift re­lief.

My soul from ev­er­last­ing death
Is by His mer­cy brought,
To tell in Zi­on’s sac­red gates
The won­ders He has wrought.

Still will I walk be­fore His face,
While He this life pro­longs;
Till grace shall all its work com­plete,
And teach me heav’n­ly songs.