Earth has de­tained me pri­son­er long
And I’m grown wea­ry now:
My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,
There’s no­thing here for you.

Tired in my thoughts, I stretch me down,
And up­ward glance mine eyes;
Upward, my Fa­ther, to Thy throne,
And to my na­tive skies.

There the dear Man, my Sav­ior, sits,
The God, how bright He shines!
And scat­ters in­fi­nite de­lights
On all the hap­py minds.

Seraphs, with ele­vat­ed strains
Circle the throne around,
And move and charm the star­ry plains
With an im­mor­tal sound.

Jesus the Lord their harps em­ploys,
Jesus my love they sing:
Jesus, the name of both our joys,
Sounds sweet from ev­ery string.

Hark, how be­yond the nar­row bounds
Of time and space they run,
And speak, in most ma­jes­tic sounds,
The God­head of the Son.

How on the Fa­ther’s breast He lay,
The dar­ling of His soul,
Infinite years be­fore the day
Or hea­vens be­gan to roll.

And now they sink the lof­ty tone,
And gent­ler notes they play,
And bring th’eter­nal God­head down
To dwell in hum­ble clay.

O sac­red beau­ties of the Man!
(The God re­sides with­in)
His flesh all pure, with­out a stain;
His soul with­out a sin.

Then, how He looked, and how He smiled,
What won­drous things He said!
Sweet che­rubs, stay, dwell here a while,
And tell what Je­sus did.

At His com­mand the blind awake,
And feel the glad­some rays:
He bids the dumb at­tempt to speak,
They try their tongues in praise.

He shed a thou­sand bless­ings round
Where’er He turned His eye;
He spoke, and at the so­ver­eign sound
The hell­ish le­gions fly.

Thus, while, with un­am­bi­tious strife,
Th’ethe­re­al min­strels rove
Through all the la­bors of His life,
And won­ders of His love.

In the full choir a brok­en string
Groans with a strange sur­prise;
The rest in si­lence mourn their king
That bleeds, and loves, and dies.

Seraph and saint, with droop­ing wings,
Cease their har­mo­ni­ous breath;
No bloom­ing trees, nor bab­bling springs,
While Je­sus sleeps in death.

Then all at once to liv­ing strains
They sum­mon ev­ery chord,
Break up the tomb, and burst His chains,
And show their ris­ing Lord.

Around the flam­ing army throngs
To guard Him to the skies,
With loud ho­san­nas on their tongues,
And tri­umph in their eyes.

In aw­ful state the con­quer­ing God
Ascends His shin­ing throne,
While tune­ful an­gels sound abroad
The vic­to­ries He has won.

Now let me rise, and join their song,
And be an an­gel too;
My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,
Here’s joy­ful work for you!

I would be­gin the mu­sic here,
And so my soul should rise.
Oh for some heav’n­ly notes to bear
My spir­it to the skies!

There, ye that love my Sav­ior, sit,
There I would fain have place,
Amongst your thrones, or at your feet,
So I might see His face.

I am con­fined to earth no more,
But mount in haste above,
To bless the God that I ad­ore,
And sing the Man I love.