The King of saints, how fair His face;
Adorned with ma­jes­ty and grace!
He comes with bless­ings from above,
And wins the na­tions to His love.

At His right hand our eyes be­hold
The queen ar­rayed in pur­est gold;
The world ad­mires her heav’n­ly dress,
Her robe of joy and right­eous­ness.

He forms her beau­ties like His own;
He calls and seats her near His throne;
Fair stran­ger, let thine heart for­get
The id­ols of thy na­tive state.

So shall the King the more re­joice
In thee, the fa­vo­rite of His choice;
Let Him be loved and yet ad­ored,
For He’s thy mak­er and thy Lord.

O hap­py hour, when thou shalt rise
To His fair pa­lace in the skies,
And all thy sons (a nu­mer­ous train)
Each like a prince in glo­ry reign!

Let end­less hon­ors crown His head;
Let ev­ery age His prais­es spread;
While we with cheer­ful songs ap­prove
The con­de­scen­sions of His love.