Now to the Lord, that makes us know
The won­ders of His dy­ing love,
Be hum­ble hon­ors paid be­low,
And strains of nob­ler praise above.

’Twas He that cleansed our foul­est sins,
And washed us in His rich­est blood;
’Tis He that makes us priests and kings,
And brings us re­bels near to God.

To Je­sus, our aton­ing priest,
To Je­sus, our su­pe­ri­or king,
Be ev­er­last­ing pow­er con­fessed,
And ev­ery tongue His glo­ry sing.

Behold, on fly­ing clouds He comes,
And ev­ery eye shall see Him move;
Though with our sins we pierced Him once,
Then He dis­plays His par­don­ing love.

The un­be­liev­ing world shall wail,
While we re­joice to see the day:
Come, Lord; nor let Thy pro­mise fail,
Nor let Thy cha­ri­ots long de­lay.