Oh, end­less theme of ne’er ceas­ing song
And mu­sic, wak­ened by su­prem­est love!
How hath it broke from fee­ble lips and strong,
The pow­er di­vine, and match­less grace to prove.

Christ, Son of God, and Christ, Son of man;
Christ on the cross, and Christ in king­ly reign.
So thro’ the ag­es, since the song be­gan,
With swell­ing hosts the saints re­peat the strain.

On hills and plains the Is­ra­el­ite on­ly knew,
On class­ic soil, on drift­ing de­sert sand,
Where’er the Ro­man ea­gles swift­ly flew,
Or roamed abroad the fierce un­go­verned band.

’Mong Jew and Gen­tile, as in wan­der­ing horde,
Barbarian, Scyth­ian, all, the bond or free—
There were who watched and wait­ed for the Lord,
And some who did His migh­ty won­ders see.

How far from the warm and ev­er rud­dy East,
Far to the rug­ged North and gold­en West,
The know­ledge of this won­drous Christ in­creased,
With life and hope the dy­ing na­tions blessed:

Thence saints, ex­ult­ant, on­ward bore His sign
From land to land, and com­passed ev­ery shore;
One Lord, one faith, one aim, one end di­vine,
Their theme and song, their life for ev­er­more!

Since ho­ly women bowed their heads and wept,
Where from the grave the an­gel rolled the stone—
That grave where He, the Son of God, had slept
As Son of Man in dar­kness and alone—

What count­less names the world’s ap­plause have won!
What notes of praise have men to these in­scribed!
How soon were they for­got­ten, one by one,
And earth’s poor hon­ors to the dead de­nied!

Not migh­ti­est kings the earth has ev­er seen,
Nor time, nor pow­ers men hon­ored or ab­horred,
Could crush the me­mo­ry of the Na­za­rene,
Or shut the saints from pre­sence of their Lord:

In king­ly courts, in pri­sons foul and damp,
In scenes tu­mul­tuous, as in homes of peace,
There, with His own, God’s an­gel would en­camp,
There rise the songs that ne­ver­more shall cease!

Thus through the years of ag­es long ago,
Thus in the chang­es of these lat­ter days:
One on­ly Lord, our Lord, ab­ove, be­low,
And He the ob­ject of our end­less praise:

This the same key-note of un­num­bered lyres,
This, too, th’ un­end­ing song of sweet ac­cord.
O world! ye have no theme that thus in­spires:
Ye still re­ject and cru­ci­fy the Lord.

In fur­nace fires, on mount­ains drear and cold;
In pea­sant hut, as in the pal­ace hall,
The sto­ry of His life for ev­er told,
And His dear love the burn­ing theme of all:

From lips too weak aught hu­man to ex­press,
From no­ble hearts that held the world at bay,
What songs have ris­en, and what strains con­fess
The bless­èd One whom I would praise to­day!

Christ Son of God, and Christ the Son of Man;
Christ on the cross, and Christ in kingly reign!
So sang the saints when first the song be­gan,
So shall it rise a ne­ver end­ing strain.

Come, Thou, and touch my lips, that I may sing;
Come, fill my heart with love to ov­er­flow:
My Lord, my life, I would some tri­bute bring,
And tell the world how much to Thee I owe!