O God I Love Thee Not That My Poor Love
O God, I love thee; not that my poor love
May win me entrance to thy heav’n above,
Nor yet that strangers to thy love must know
The bitterness of everlasting woe.
But, Jesus, thou art mine, and I am thine;
Clasped to thy bosom by thine arms divine,
Who on the cruel Cross for me hast borne
The nails, the spear, and man’s unpitying scorn.
No thought can fathom and no tongue express
Thy griefs, thy toils, thy anguish measureless,
Thy death, O Lamb of God, the undefiled;
And all for me, thy wayward, sinful child.
How can I choose but love thee, God’s dear Son,
O Jesus, loveliest and most loving one!
Were there no heav’n to gain, no hell to flee,
For what thou art alone I must love thee.
Not for the hope of glory or reward,
But even as thyself hast loved me, Lord,
I love Thee, and will love thee and adore,
Who art my King, my God, forevermore.