Oh, sweet­ly breathe the lyres above,
When an­gels touch the qui­ver­ing string,
And wake, to chant Im­ma­nu­el’s love,
Such strains as an­gel lips can sing.

And sweet, on earth, the cho­ral swell,
From mor­tal tongues, of glad­some lays;
When par­doned souls their rap­tures tell,
And, grate­ful hymn Im­ma­nu­el’s praise.

Jesus, Thy name our souls adore;
We own the bond that makes us Thine;
And car­nal joys, that charmed be­fore,
For Thy dear sake we now re­sign.

Our hearts, by dy­ing love sub­dued,
Accept Thine of­fered grace to­day;
Beneath the cross, with blood be­dewed,
We bow, and give our­selves away.

In Thee we trust—on Thee rely;
Though we are fee­ble, Thou art strong;
Oh keep us till our spi­rits fly
To join the bright im­mor­tal throng.