Majestic sweet­ness sits en­throned
Upon the Sav­ior’s brow;
His head with ra­di­ant glories crowned,
His lips with grace o’er­flow,
His lips with grace o’er­flow.

To Christ, the Lord, let ev­ery tongue
Its nob­lest trib­ute bring
When He’s the sub­ject of the song,
Who can re­fuse to sing?
Who can re­fuse to sing?

Survey the beau­ties of His face,
And on His glo­ries dwell;
Think of the won­ders of His grace,
And all His tri­umphs tell,
And all His tri­umphs tell.

No mor­tal can with Him com­pare
Among the sons of men;
Fairer is He than all the fair
Who fill the heav’n­ly train,
Who fill the heav’n­ly train.

He saw me plunged in deep dis­tress
And flew to my re­lief;
For me He bore the shame­ful cross
And car­ried all my grief,
And car­ried all my grief.

His hand a thou­sand bless­ings pours
Upon my guil­ty head:
His pre­sence gilds my dark­est hours,
And guards my sleep­ing bed,
And guards my sleep­ing bed.

To Him I owe my life and breath
And all the joys I have;
He makes me tri­umph over death
And saves me from the grave,
And saves me from the grave.

To Heav’n, the place of His abode,
He brings my wea­ry feet;
Shows me the glo­ries of my God,
And makes my joys com­plete,
And makes my joys com­plete.

Since from His boun­ty I re­ceive
Such proofs of love di­vine,
Had I a thou­sand hearts to give,
Lord, they should all be Thine,
Lord, they should all be Thine.