The King of Glo­ry stand­eth be­side the heart of sin;
His migh­ty voice com­mand­eth the rag­ing waves with­in;
The floods of deep­est ang­uish roll back­ward at His will,
As o’er the storm aris­eth His man­date, Peace, be still.

At times, with sud­den glo­ry, He speaks, and all is done;
Without one stroke of bat­tle the vic­to­ry is won,
While we, with joy be­hold­ing, can scarce be­lieve it true
That e’en our king­ly Je­sus can form such hearts anew.

O Christ, Thy love is migh­ty; long suf­fer­ing is Thy grace;
And glo­ri­ous is the splen­dor that beam­eth from Thy face.
Our hearts up­leap in glad­ness when we behold that love,
As we go sing­ing on­ward, to dwell with Thee above.