Hosannah to the Prince of light,
That clothed Him­self in clay,
Entered the ir­on gates of death,
And tore the bars away.
Death is no more the king of dread,
Since our Im­ma­nu­el rose;
He took the ty­rant’s sting away,
And spoiled our hell­ish foes.

See how the Con­quer­or mounts aloft,
And to His Fa­ther flies,
With scars of hon­or in His flesh
And tri­umph in His eyes.
There our ex­alt­ed Sav­ior reigns,
And scat­ters bless­ings down;
Our Je­sus fills the mid­dle seat
Of the ce­les­ti­al throne.

Raise your de­vo­tion, mor­tal tongues,
To reach His blest abode;
Sweet be the ac­cents of your songs
To our in­car­nate God.
Bright an­gels, strike your loud­est strings,
Your sweet­est voic­es raise;
Let Heav’n and all cre­at­ed things
Sound our Im­ma­nu­el’s praise.