The Glory of Christ

O For a seraph's flaming tongue To tell what my Redeemer's done, To shew the people all his worth, And set the wond'rous Saviour forth.

Could I but paint his beauteous name, Or draw the outlines of his fame, The world would sure enamour'd be, Nor one deny his Deity.

Compell'd by his redeeming love, He left the blissful choirs above, Eloped from those triumphant lays Which constant echo forth his praise.

Down to this lower world he came To bear the guilty sinner's shame, And carry all that weight of woe Which none but God could undergo.

Thus, having wrought our righteousness, And purchas'd by his blood our peace, Back to the heavenly realms be fled, His people's ever-living Head.

And now he intercedes above, And still retains the tend'rest love: He hears our groans, he notes our sighs, And all our needful wants supplies.

He soon will bid th' archangel come, To blow his trump, and call us home; His fav'rites then shall mount above, And bask for ever in his love.

For love like this, ye saints, arise Superior to all earthly ties: Proclaim the Saviour's praise abroad, And magnify the Triune God.