I’ll speak the hon­ors of my king,
His form di­vine­ly fair;
None of His sons of mor­tal race
May with the Lord com­pare.

Sweet is Thy speech, and heav’n­ly grace
Upon Thy lips is shed;
Thy God, with bless­ings in­fi­nite,
Hath crowned Thy sacr­ed head.

Gird on Thy sword, vic­to­ri­ous Prince,
Ride with ma­jes­tic sway;
Thy ter­rors shall strike through Thy foes,
And make the world ob­ey.

Thy throne, O God, for ev­er stands;
Thy word of grace shall prove
A peace­ful scep­ter in Thy hands,
To rule the saints by love.

Justice and truth at­tend Thee still,
But mer­cy is Thy choice;
And God, Thy God, Thy soul shall fill
With most pe­cul­iar joys.