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.