Luke 24: He lifts the hands stretch'd out so late

He lifts the hands stretch'd out so late,
And nail'd to the accursed tree,
Which bore His sacred body's weight
With all our sin and misery;
The hands from which our blessings flow
Which every creature's wants supply;
Fountains of grace to all below,
They hold, and bear us to the sky.

Those hands on which my hopes depend
My present and eternal peace,
Lift up, and over me extend,
To guard, and sanctify and bless;
Bless me from Thy celestial throne,
With more than heart can e'er conceive,
And seal, and take me for Thine own.
Thy purchase, in Thy joy to live.