Oh, endless theme of ne’er ceasing song
And music, wakened by supremest love!
How hath it broke from feeble lips and strong,
The power divine, and matchless grace to prove.

Christ, Son of God, and Christ, Son of man;
Christ on the cross, and Christ in kingly reign.
So thro’ the ages, since the song began,
With swelling hosts the saints repeat the strain.

On hills and plains the Israelite only knew,
On classic soil, on drifting desert sand,
Where’er the Roman eagles swiftly flew,
Or roamed abroad the fierce ungoverned band.

’Mong Jew and Gentile, as in wandering horde,
Barbarian, Scythian, all, the bond or free—
There were who watched and waited for the Lord,
And some who did His mighty wonders see.

How far from the warm and ever ruddy East,
Far to the rugged North and golden West,
The knowledge of this wondrous Christ increased,
With life and hope the dying nations blessed:

Thence saints, exultant, onward bore His sign
From land to land, and compassed every shore;
One Lord, one faith, one aim, one end divine,
Their theme and song, their life for ev­er­more!

Since holy women bowed their heads and wept,
Where from the grave the angel rolled the stone—
That grave where He, the Son of God, had slept
As Son of Man in darkness and alone—

What countless names the world’s applause have won!
What notes of praise have men to these inscribed!
How soon were they forgotten, one by one,
And earth’s poor honors to the dead denied!

Not mightiest kings the earth has ever seen,
Nor time, nor powers men honored or abhorred,
Could crush the memory of the Nazarene,
Or shut the saints from presence of their Lord:

In kingly courts, in prisons foul and damp,
In scenes tumultuous, as in homes of peace,
There, with His own, God’s angel would encamp,
There rise the songs that nevermore shall cease!

Thus through the years of ages long ago,
Thus in the changes of these latter days:
One only Lord, our Lord, above, below,
And He the object of our endless praise:

This the same key-note of unnumbered lyres,
This, too, th’ unending song of sweet accord.
O world! ye have no theme that thus inspires:
Ye still reject and crucify the Lord.

In furnace fires, on mountains drear and cold;
In peasant hut, as in the palace hall,
The story of His life for ever told,
And His dear love the burning theme of all:

From lips too weak aught human to express,
From noble hearts that held the world at bay,
What songs have ris­en, and what strains confess
The blessèd One whom I would praise today!

Christ Son of God, and Christ the Son of Man;
Christ on the Cross, and Christ in Kingly Reign!
So sang the saints when first the song began,
So shall it rise a ne­ver ending strain.

Come, Thou, and touch my lips, that I may sing;
Come, fill my heart with love to overflow:
My Lord, my life, I would some tribute bring,
And tell the world how much to Thee I owe!