All hail to thee, O bless­èd morn!
To tid­ings long by pro­phets borne
Hast thou ful­fill­ment giv­en.
O sac­red and im­mor­tal day,
When un­to earth, in glo­ri­ous ray,
Descends the grace of Hea­ven!
Singing, ring­ing, sounds are blend­ing,
Praises send­ing un­to Hea­ven
For the Sav­ior to us giv­en.

’Tis God’s own Im­age and with­al,
The Son of Man, that mor­tals all
May find in Him a Bro­ther.
He comes, with peace and love to bide
On earth, the err­ing race to guide
And help as could no oth­er;
Rather ga­ther clos­er, fond­er,
Sheep that wan­der, feed and fold them,
Than let ev­il pow­ers hold them.

He tears, like oth­er men, will shed,
Our sor­rows share, and be our aid,
Through His eter­nal pow­er;
The Lord’s good will un­to us show,
And min­gle in our cup of woe
The drops of mer­cy’s show­er;
Dying, buy­ing through His pas­sion
Our sal­va­tion and to mor­tals
Opening the hea­ven­ly por­tals.

He comes, for our re­demp­tion sent,
And by His glo­ry Hea­ven is rent
To close up­on us ne­ver;
Our bless­èd Shep­herd He would be,
Whom we may fol­low faith­ful­ly
And be with Him for­ev­er;
Higher, nigh­er glo­ry wing­ing,
Praises sing­ing to the Fa­ther
And His Son, our Lord and Sav­ior.