Now, my tongue, the mys­te­ry tell­ing,
Of the glo­ri­ous body sing,
And the blood, all price ex­cel­ling,
Which all man­kind’s Lord and king,
In a vir­gin’s womb once dwell­ing,
Shed for this world’s ran­som­ing.

Given for us and con­des­cend­ing
To be born for us be­low,
He, with men in con­verse blend­ing,
Dwelt the seed of truth to sow,
Till He closed with won­drous end­ing
His most pa­tient life be­low.

That last night, at sup­per ly­ing
’Mid the twelve, His chos­en band,
Jesus, with the law com­ply­ing,
Keeps the feast its rites de­mand;
Then, more pre­cious food sup­ply­ing,
Gives Him­self with His own hand.

Word made flesh, true bread He mak­eth
By His word His flesh to be;
Wine His blood: which whoso tak­eth
Must from car­nal thoughts be free;
Faith alone, though sight for­sak­eth
Shows true hearts the mys­te­ry.

Therefore we, be­fore Him bend­ing,
This great sac­ra­ment re­vere;
Types and sha­dows have their end­ing,
For the new­er rite is here;
Faith, our out­ward sense be­friend­ing,
Makes our in­ward vi­sion clear.

Glory let us give, and bless­ing,
To the Fa­ther and the Son;
Honor, might and praise ad­dress­ing
While eter­nal ag­es run,
Ever, too, His love con­fess­ing,
Who from both with both is One.