Philip Doddridge, 1702-1751
How rich Thy bounty, King of kings!
Thy favors, how divine!
The blessings which Thy Gospel brings,
How splendidly they shine!
Gold is but dross, and gems but toys,
Should gold and gems compare;
How mean, when sent against those joys
Thy poorest servants share!
Yet all these treasures of Thy grace
Are lodged in urns of clay;
And the weak sons of mortal race
The immortal gifts convey.
Feebly they lisp Thy glories forth,
Yet grace the victory gives;
Quickly they molder back to earth,
Yet still Thy Gospel lives.
Such wonders power divine effects;
Such trophies God can raise;
His hand, from crumbling dust, erects
His monuments of praise.
