Great God, to what glo­ri­ous height
Hast Thou ad­vanced the Lord Thy Son!
Angels, in all their robes of light,
Are made the serv­ants of His throne.

Before His feet their ar­mies wait,
And swift as flames of fire they move
To man­age His af­fairs of state,
In works of ven­geance or of love.

His or­ders run through all their hosts,
Legions des­cend at His com­mand,
To shield and guard the Bri­tish coasts,
When for­eign rage in­vades our land.

Now they are sent to guide our feet
Up to the gates of Thine ab­ode,
Through all the dan­gers that we meet
In tra­vel­ing the heav’n­ly road.

Lord, when I leave this mo­rtal ground,
And Thou shalt bid me rise and come,
Send a be­lov­èd an­gel down
Safe to con­duct my spir­it home.