O Lord, ’tis mat­ter of high praise,
Thy Word on us doth shine,
But hap­py they who feel its rays,
And glo­ri­ous pow­er di­vine.

O let poor sin­ners feel their sin
Prick them, as with a sword;
And purge out all that filth with­in;
So will we praise Thy Word.

Enlightened souls have cause to sing,
Who wound­ed were by Thee;
True cause of joy to such doth spring;
For they, Lord, heal­èd be.

And now in robes most rich­ly decked,
They to the King are brought;
Surpassing an­gels, for have they
A robe so rich­ly wrought.

We there­fore throw our crowns be­low
Thy high and glo­ri­ous throne;
And must all say, both night and day,
Thou wor­thy art alone,

All glo­ry, pow­er, and praise to have,
By us for­ev­er­more;
Thus let us sing un­to our king,
And Him in heart ad­ore.