There was no an­gel ’midst the throng
Which stood around the throne,
Who could God’s jus­tice sa­tis­fy,
Or for man’s sins atone.

Nor could Je­ho­vah’s love en­dure
A mes­sen­ger to send,
To bear the sin­ner’s pun­ish­ment,
The guil­ty to be­friend.

Not e’en the burst­ing floods of wrath
Could quench the flames of love,
Which shin­ing hid the flash­ing sword
The law un­sheathed above.

The gra­cious Fa­ther speaks a word
Into His dear Son’s ear,
Which, ec­ho­ing o’er the trem­bling earth,
Dismissed our anx­ious fear.

And, when the wea­ry ag­es passed,
God to the world ap­peared;
And in the Babe of Beth­le­hem
His glo­ry was en­sphered.

No crea­ture whom His hand had made
Came with that word of hope;
Nor was a crea­ture’s strength re­quired
With Sa­tan’s pow­er to cope.

For God Him­self in Ma­ry’s son
Brought grace and truth to light,
And in the face of Je­sus Christ
We read His love aright.

Jesus, Thou art my Lord, my God,
I kneel and bow to Thee;
For on Thy brow, though bruised with thorns,
A crown di­vine I see.

And I can trust the migh­ty work
Which must be done for me,
To those dear hands of love and pow­er,
Now fast­ened to the tree.

If Thou wert less than one di­ine,
My soul would be dis­mayed;
But through Thy hu­man lips God speaks,
’Tis I, be not afraid.

Yet, bruised and bleed­ing on the cross,
I see Thy form di­vine;
And, though up­on th’ac­curs­èd tree,
I joy to call Thee mine.

The sword which should have pierced my life
Has en­tered Thy dear breast,
And in God’s faith­ful­ness to Thee
My trust­ing heart shall rest.

Death and the tomb no pow­er had
To hide Thy glo­ry, Lord;
For Thou didst rise ’midst heav’n­ly hosts,
By whom Thou wert ad­ored.

And aft­er men were com­fort­ed
By sight of Thee again,
Thou didst as­cend to God’s right hand,
Their great­er good to gain.

Thou wilt not leave my soul alone,
To strug­gle to Thy side,
But in my spir­it’s help­less­ness
Shall strength di­vine bide.

And, when I stand on Jor­dan’s waves,
Thou shalt my weak­ness hold,
Until at last my wea­ry feet,
Shall walk the streets of gold.

There, in that cloud­less light se­rene,
Before the shin­ing throne
I’ll wor­ship at the feet of Him
Who did for me atone.