Savior of men, our joy su­preme,
The heart’s de­sire and pure de­light;
Who by Thy love didst those re­deem,
Whom Thou cre­at­ed by Thy might:
What un­known love could Thee con­strain,
Our sins, all sin­less, to sus­tain?
And death’s sharp sting to cru­ci­fy,
That we might live and ne­ver die?

Thou break’st through Cha­os’ old do­main,
Unbind’st the pri­soned cap­tive’s band,
And with tri­um­phant state dost reign
In glo­ry on Thy Sire’s right hand.
O for our woes be­nign­ly feel;
Our wounds with gen­tle mer­cy heal;
Our eyes, which long Thy face to see,
Glad with the bliss­ful sight of Thee!

Be Thou our heav’n­ward guide and way,
Thou of our hearts the aim and goal;
Wipe Thou our tears with joy away,
Revive and glad­den Thou the soul!
To Thee, as­cend­ed up to Heav’n,
Triumphant Son, be glo­ry giv’n;
And, girt with Heav’n’s ador­ing host,
Thee, Sire of all; Thee, Ho­ly Ghost!