O holy Fa­ther, who in ten­der love
Didst give Thine on­ly Son for us to die,
The while He pleads at Thy right hand above,
We in one Spir­it now with faith draw nigh,
And, as we eat this bread and drink this wine,
Plead His once of­fered sac­ri­fice di­vine.

We are not wor­thy to be called Thy sons,
Nor gather up the frag­ments of Thy feast;
Yet look on us, Thy sor­row­ing con­trite ones,
On us in Him our ad­vo­cate and priest,
Whose robe is fringed with mer­cy’s gold­en bells,
Whose breast­plate fa­thom­less com­pas­sion tells.

O hear us, for Thou al­ways hear­est Him;
Behold us sprin­kled with His pre­cious blood;
And from be­tween the sha­dow­ing che­ru­bim
Shine forth, and grant us in this hea­ven­ly food
Foretastes of com­ing glo­ry, and mean­while
A Fa­ther’s bless­ing and a Fa­ther’s smile.

Nor on­ly, Fa­ther, in Thy pre­sence here
Low at Thy foot­stool for our­selves we pray,
But for the loved ones to our hearts most near
At home or toil­ing in far lands away;
O guard them, guide them, com­fort and be­friend,
And keep them Thine un­fal­ter­ing to the end.

And, Fa­ther, ere we leave Thy mer­cy-throne,
Bound by these sac­red pledg­es, yet most free,
We give our hearts, and not our hearts alone,
But all we are and all we have to Thee;
Glad free-will of­fer­ings all our pil­grim days,
Hereafter an eter­ni­ty of praise.