To be sung after the Lord's Supper

THy love, O Lord, was very great
To such vile ones as we;
Our hearts were once dead as a stone,
But now they quickned be.

Slight Balm may heal a slighter sore,
But there's no Med'cine good
Which can to life our Souls restore,
But the Physician's Blood.

Lord Jesus when we thee espy,
Though life is almost gone,
We see by Faith we shall not die,
All praise to thee alone

Who hast pour'd in sweet Oyl and Wine
To heal each wounded heart;
O thou wilt heal all Souls of thine,
Who for their sakes didst smart.

We therefore will unto thee sing,
And thee always adore;
To him from whom all Blessings spring
Be praise for evermore.