O Christ, Thou hast as­cend­ed,
Triumphantly on high!
By che­rub guards at­tend­ed
And ar­mies of the sky:
Let earth tell forth the sto­ry—
Our ve­ry flesh and bone,
Immanuel, in glo­ry,
Ascends His Fa­ther’s throne.

Heaven’s gates un­fold above Thee:
But canst Thou, Lord, for­get
The lit­tle band who love Thee
And gaze from Ol­iv­et?
Nay, on Thy breast engrav­en
Thou bear­est ev­ery name,
Our priest in earth and Hea­ven
Eternally the same.

There, there Thou stand­est plead­ing
The vir­tue of Thy blood,
For sin­ners in­ter­ced­ing,
Our ad­vo­cate with God:
And ev­ery change­ful fa­shion
Of our brief joys and cares,
Finds thought in Thy com­pas­sion
And ec­ho in Thy pray­ers.

O for the price­less mer­it
Of Thy re­deem­ing cross!
Vouchsafe Thy se­ven­fold spir­it
And turn to gain our loss;
Till we by strong en­dea­vor
In heart and mind as­cend
And dwell with Thee for­ev­er
In rap­tures with­out end.