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.