Father, we wait to feel Thy grace,
To see Thy glo­ries shine;
The Lord will His own ta­ble bless,
And make the feast di­vine.

We touch, we taste the heav’n­ly bread,
We drink the sac­red cup;
With out­ward forms our sense is fed,
Our souls re­joice in hope.

We shall ap­pear before the throne
Of our for­giv­ing God,
Dressed in the gar­ments of His Son,
And sprin­kled with His blood.

We shall be strong to run the race,
And climb the up­per sky;
Christ will pro­vide our souls with grace,
He bought a large sup­ply.

Let us in­dulge a cheer­ful frame,
For joy be­comes a feast;
We love the me­mo­ry of His name
More than the wine we taste.