Sing, my tongue, the Sav­ior’s glo­ry,
Of His flesh the mys­te­ry sing,
Of the blood, all price ex­ceed­ing,
Shed by our im­mor­tal king,
Destined, for the world’s re­demp­tion,
From a no­ble womb to spring.

Of a pure and spot­less vir­gin,
Born for us, His love to show,
He, as man, with man con­vers­ing,
Stayed, the seeds of truth to sow;
Then He closed in won­drous fa­shion,
This His life on earth below.

On the night of that last sup­per,
Seated with His chos­en band,
He, the pas­chal vic­tim eat­ing,
First ful­fills the law’s com­mand;
Then as food to all His breth­ren
Gives Him­self with His own hand.

Christ, the Word made flesh, by speak­ing,
Earthly bread to flesh He turns;
Wine be­comes His blood so pre­cious—
Unconceived in hu­man terms!
Hearts sin­cere per­ceive this mar­vel;
Faith its lessons quick­ly learns.

Down in ad­o­ra­tion fall­ing,
This great sac­ra­ment we hail;
Over an­cient forms of wor­ship
Newer rites of grace pre­vail;
Faith tells us that Christ is pre­sent
When our hu­man sens­es fail.

To the ev­er­last­ing Fa­ther,
And the Son who made us free,
And the Spi­rit, God pro­ceed­ing,
From them each eter­nal­ly,
Be sal­va­tion, hon­or, bless­ing,
Might and end­less ma­jes­ty.