Great God, to what glo­ri­ous height
Hast Thou advanced the Lord Thy Son!
Angels, in all their robes of light,
Are made the servants of His throne.

Before His feet their armies wait,
And swift as flames of fire they move
To manage His affairs of state,
In works of vengeance or of love.

His orders run through all their hosts,
Legions descend at His command,
To shield and guard the British coasts,
When foreign rage invades our land.

Now they are sent to guide our feet
Up to the gates of Thine abode,
Through all the dangers that we meet
In traveling the heavenly road.

Lord, when I leave this mortal ground,
And Thou shalt bid me rise and come,
Send a belovèd angel down
Safe to conduct my spirit home.