To Tell The Saviour All My Wants, How Pleasing Is The Task! Nor Less To Praise Him When He Grants Beyond What I Can Ask. My Labouring Spirit Vainly Seeks To 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 Tastes They Lose, Exposed To Open Air. But This With Boldness I Proclaim, Nor 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 Commends The 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.