1 Oh, not my own these verdant hills,
And fruits and flow’rs, and stream, and wood;
But His who all with glory fills,
Who bought me with His precious blood.
2 Oh, not my own this wondrous frame,
Its curious work, its living soul;
But His who for my ransom came;
Slain for my sake, He claims the whole.
3 Oh, not my own the grace that keeps
My feet from fierce temptation free;
Oh, not my own the thought that leaps,
Adoring, blessed Lord, to Thee.
4 Oh, not my own; I’ll soar and sing,
When life, with all its toils, is o’er,
And Thou Thy trembling Lamb shalt bring
Safe home to wander nevermore.