Sunday Hymn: Not What These Hands Have Done

Not what these hands have done
Can save my guil­ty soul;
Not what my toil­ing flesh has borne
Can make my spir­it whole.
Not what I feel or do
Can give me peace with God;
Not all my pray­ers and sighs and tears
Can bear my aw­ful load.

Thy work alone, O Christ,
Can ease this weight of sin;
Thy blood alone, O Lamb of God,
Can give me peace with­in.
Thy love to me, O God,
Not mine, O Lord, to Thee,
Can rid me of this dark un­rest,
And set my spir­it free.

Thy grace alone, O God,
To me can par­don speak;
Thy pow­er alone, O Son of God,
Can this sore bond­age break.
No oth­er work, save Thine,
No mean­er blood will do;
No strength, save that which is di­vine,
Can bear me safe­ly through.

I bless the Christ of God;
I rest on love di­vine;
And with un­fal­ter­ing lip and heart
I call this Sav­ior mine.
His cross dis­pels each doubt;
I bu­ry in His tomb
Each thought of un­belief and fear,
Each lin­ger­ing shade of gloom.

I praise the God of grace;
I trust His truth and might;
He calls me His, I call Him mine,
My God, my joy and light.
In Him is on­ly good,
In me is on­ly ill;
My ill but draws His good­ness forth,
And me He lov­eth still.

’Tis He who sav­eth me,
And free­ly par­don gives;
I love be­cause He lov­eth me,
I live be­cause He lives.
My life with Him is hid,
My death has passed away,
My clouds have melt­ed in­to light,
My mid­night in­to day.

—Horatius Bonar