The migh­ty frame of glo­ri­ous grace,
That bright­est mon­ument of praise
That e’er the God of love de­signed,
Employs and fills my la­bor­ing mind.

Begin, my soul, the heav’n­ly song,
A bur­den for an an­gel’s tongue:
When Ga­bri­el sounds these aw­ful things,
He tunes and sum­mons all his strings.

Proclaim in­im­it­able love:
Jesus, the Lord of worlds above,
Puts off the beams of bright ar­ray,
And veils the God in mor­tal clay!

What black re­proach de­filed His name,
When with our sins He took our shame!
He whom ad­or­ing an­gels blessed
Is made the im­pi­ous re­bel’s jest.

He that dis­tri­butes crowns and thrones
Hangs on a tree, and bleeds, and groans!
The Prince of Life re­signs His breath,
The King of Glo­ry bows to death!

But see the won­ders of His pow­er,
He tri­umphs in His dy­ing hour;
And while by Sa­tan’s rage He fell,
He dashed the ris­ing hopes of hell.

Thus were the hosts of death sub­dued,
And sin was drowned in Je­sus’ blood;
Thus He arose, and reigns above,
And con­quers sin­ners by His love.

Who shall ful­fill this bound­less song?
The theme sur­mounts an an­gel’s tongue:
How low, how vain are mor­tal airs,
When Ga­bri­el’s nob­ler harp des­pairs!