Our God ascends His lofty throne,
Arrayed in majesty unknown;
His luster all the temple fills,
And spreads over all th’ethereal hills.

The holy, holy, holy Lord,
By all the seraphim adored,
And, while they stand beneath His seat,
They veil their faces, and their feet.

And can a sinful worm endure
The presence of a God so pure?
Or these polluted lips proclaim
The honors of so grand a name?

O for Thine altar’s glowing coal,
To touch my lips, to fire my soul,
To purge the sordid dross away,
And into crystal turn my clay.

Then if a messenger Thou ask,
A laborer for the hardest task,
Thro’ all my weakness, and my fear,
Love shall reply, Thy servant’s here.

Nor should my willing soul complain,
Tho’ all its efforts seemed in vain;
It ample recompense shall be,
But to have wrought, my God, for Thee.