Praise to the hea­ven­ly Wis­dom
Who knows the hearts of all—
The saint­ly life’s be­gin­nings,
The trai­tor’s sec­ret fall;
Our own as­cend­ed Mas­ter,
Who heard His Church’s cry,
Made known His guid­ing pre­sence,
And ruled her from on high.

Elect in His fore­knowl­edge,
To fill the lost one’s place;
He formed His chos­en ves­sel
By hid­den gifts of grace;
Then, by the lot’s dis­pos­ing,
He lift­ed up the poor,
And set him with the princ­es
On high for ev­er­more.

For on the gold­en breast­plate
Of our great priest above,
Twelve are the stones that glist­en
And throbs that heart of love;
And twelve the fair foun­da­tions
Of Sa­lem’s jas­per wall;
And twelve the thrones pre­des­tined
Within her judg­ment hall.

No mys­tic gem is lack­ing
In that di­vine ar­ray;
No emp­ty throne shall dark­en
The glo­ry of that day;
For lo! on twelve the Spir­it,
The Fa­ther’s pro­mise, came;
And twelve went forth to­ge­ther
To preach the sav­ing name.

Still guide Thy Church, Chief Shep­herd,
Her loss­es still re­new;
Be Thy dread keys en­trust­ed
To faith­ful hands and true;
Apostles of Thy choos­ing
May all her rul­ers be,
That each with joy may ren­der
His last ac­count to Thee!