Almighty fram­er of the skies!
O let our pure de­vo­tion rise,
Like in­cense in Thy sight!
Wrapped in im­pe­ne­tra­ble shade
The tex­ture of our souls was made,
Till Thy com­mand gave light.

The Sun of glo­ry gleamed the ray,
Refined the dark­ness in­to day,
And bid the va­pors fly:
Impelled by His eter­nal love,
He left His pal­ac­es ab­ove,
To cheer our gloomy sky.

How shall we ce­le­brate the day
When God ap­peared in mor­tal clay,
The mark of world­ly scorn;
When the arch­an­gel’s hea­ven­ly lays
Attempted the Re­deem­er’s praise,
And hailed sal­va­tion’s morn?

A hum­ble form the God­head wore,
The pains of po­ver­ty He bore,
To gau­dy pomp un­known:
Though in a hum­ble walk He trod,
Still was the man Al­migh­ty God,
In glo­ry all His own.

Despised, op­pressed, the God­head bears
The tor­ments of this vale of tears,
Nor bids His ven­geance rise;
He saw the crea­tures He had made
Revile His pow­er, His peace in­vade;
He saw with mer­cy’s eyes.

How shall we ce­le­brate His name,
Who groaned be­neath a life of shame,
In all af­flict­ions tried?
The soul is rap­tured to con­ceive
A truth which be­ing must be­lieve:
The God eter­nal died.

My soul, ex­ert thy pow­ers, ad­ore,
Upon de­vo­tion’s plum­age soar,
To ce­le­brate the day:
The God from whom cre­ation sprung
Shall ani­mate my grate­ful tongue;
From Him I’ll catch the lay!