High on a hill of dazz­ling light
The King of glo­ry spreads His seat,
And troops of an­gels stretched for flight,
Stand wait­ing round His aw­ful feet.

Go, saith the Lord, My Ga­bri­el, go,
Salute the vir­gin’s fruit­ful womb;
Make haste, ye che­rubs down be­low,
Sing and pro­claim the Sav­ior come.

Here a bright squad­ron leaves the skies,
And thick around Eli­sha stands;
Anon a heav’n­ly sol­dier flies,
And breaks the chains from Pe­ter’s hands.

Thy wing­èd troops, O God of hosts!
Wait on Thy wan­der­ing church be­low:
Here we are sail­ing to Thy coasts;
Let an­gels be our con­voy, too.

Are they not all Thy ser­vants, Lord?
At Thy com­mand they go and come;
With cheer­ful haste ob­ey Thy word,
And guard Thy child­ren to their home.