I will give thanks and sing;
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.
I daily, hourly sing;
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.
No hand but Thine shall fill;
The waters of the earth have failed,
And I am thirsty still.
And here all day they rise;
I seek the treasure of Thy love,
And close at hand it lies.
To long-loved music set,
A song of praise for all the grace
I have not tasted yet.
That yet I must not see;
The hand that bled to make it mine
Is keeping it for me.
That sets my heart at rest;
A calm assurance for today
That to be poor is best.
Who hath made all things mine;
That draws my captive will to Him,
And makes it one with Thine.