Of the glo­ri­ous body tell­ing,
O my tongue, its mys­te­ries sing.
And the blood, all price ex­cell­ing,
Which the world’s eter­nal King,
In a no­ble womb once dwell­ing,
Shed for this world’s ran­som­ing.

Given for us, for us des­cend­ing,
Of a vir­gin to pro­ceed,
Man with man in con­verse blend­ing,
Scattered He the Gos­pel seed,
Till His so­journ drew to end­ing,
Which He closed in glo­ri­ous deed.

At the last great sup­per ly­ing
Circled by His breth­ren’s ba­nd,
Meekly with the law com­ply­ing,
First he fin­ished the com­mand,
Then, im­mor­tal food sup­ply­ing,
Gave Him­self with His own hand.

Word made flesh, by word He mak­eth
Very bread His flesh to be;
Man in wine Christ’s blood par­tak­eth:
And if sens­es fail to see,
Faith alone the true heart wak­eth
To be­hold 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 the 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.