Words: , in the Gos­pel Mag­a­zine, 1775.

Music: Clap­ham, anon­y­mous, in The Prim­i­tive Meth­od­ist Hymn­al, edit­ed by George Booth (Lon­don: Prim­i­tive Meth­od­ist Pub­lish­ing House, 1889).

Thy goodness, Lord, our souls confess,
Thy goodness we adore:
A spring, whose blessings never fail,
A sea without a shore.

Sun, moon and stars Thy love attest,
In every cheerful ray:
Love draws the curtains of the night,
And love restores the day.

Thy bounty every season crowns,
With all the bliss it yields;
With joyful clusters bend the vines,
With harvests wave the fields.

But chiefly Thy compassions, Lord,
Are in the Gospel seen;
There, like the sun, Thy mercy shines,
Without a cloud between.

Thy Son, Thy noblest, choicest gift,
Was from Thy bosom sent
To bear from off a sinking world
Its load of punishment.

Ours is the life, the glory ours,
And His the death and shame;
Pardon, acceptance, peace, and joy,
Are published in His Name.