At Thy com­mand, our dear­est Lord,
Here we at­tend Thy dy­ing feast;
Thy blood like wine adorns Thy board,
And Thine own flesh feeds ev­ery guest.

Our faith adorns Thy bleed­ing love,
And trusts for life in One that died;
We hope for heav’n­ly crowns above,
From a Re­deem­er cru­ci­fied.

Let the vain world pro­nounce it shame,
And fling their scan­dals on the cause;
We come to boast our Sav­ior’s name,
And make our tri­umphs in His cross.

With joy we tell the scoff­ing age,
He that was dead has left His tomb;
He lives above their ut­most rage,
And we are wait­ing till He come.