1 To Christ, the Lord, let every tongue
Its nobles tribute bring:
When he's the subject of the song,
who can refuse to sing?
2 Survey the beauties of his face,
And on his glories dwell;
Think of the wonders of his grace,
And all his triumphs tell.
3 Majestic sweetness sits enthron'd
Upon his awful brow;
His head with radiant glories crown'd,
His lips with grace o'erflow.
4 No mortal can with him compare,
Among the sons of men:
Fairer he is than all the fair
That fill the heavenly train.
5 He saw me plung'd in deep distress,
He fled to my relief;
For me he bore the shameful cross
And carried all my grief.
6 His hand a thousand blessings pours
Upon my guilty head:
His presence gilds my darkest hours,
And guards my sleeping bed.
7 To him I owe my life and breath,
And all the joys I have;
He makes me triumph over death,
And saves me from the grave.
8 To heaven the place of his abode
He brings my weary feet;
Shews me the glories of my God,
And makes my joys complete.
9 Since from his beauty I receive
Such proofs of love divine,
Had I a thousand hearts to give,
Lord, they should all be thine.