O Lord of glory, who couldst leave, The height supreme in death to lie, What tongue shall sing, what heart conceive The love divine that made Thee die? Bought with a price, for ever Thine, We bless Thee for Thy stoop divine.
But ris'n, the Firstborn from the dead, Triumphant hast Thou entered in; The glorious Man, the living Head, Thrice worthy Thou our hearts to win! In Thy blest face all glories shine, And there we gaze on love divine.
