When with a mind devout­ly pressed,
Dear Sav­ior! my re­volv­ing breast
Would past of­fens­es trace;
Trembling, I make the black re­view,
Yet pleased be­hold, ad­mir­ing too,
The pow­er of chang­ing grace.

This tongue, with blas­phe­mies de­filed,
These feet, to err­ing paths be­guiled,
In heav’n­ly league agree;
Who could be­lieve such lips could praise,
Or think my dark and wind­ing ways
Should ev­er lead to Thee?

These eyes, that once abused their sight,
Now lift to Thee their wa­te­ry light,
And weep a si­lent flood;
These hands as­cend in cease­less pray­er,
O wash away the stains they wear,
In pure, re­deem­ing blood.

These ears, that pleased could en­ter­tain
The mid­night oath, the lust­ful strain,
When round the fes­tal board;
Now deaf to all th’en­chant­ing noise,
Avoid the throng, de­test their joys,
And press to hear Thy word.

Thus art Thou served in ev­ery part.
And wouldst Thou but trans­form my heart,
That dros­sy thing re­fine;
That grace may na­ture’s strength con­trol,
And a new crea­ture—bo­dy—soul,
Be all, be ev­er Thine.