Ye an­gels who stand round the throne,
And view my Im­ma­nu­el’s face,
In rap­tur­ous songs make Him known;
O tune your soft harps to His praise.
He formed you the spir­its you are,
So hap­py, so no­ble, so good;
While oth­ers sank down in des­pair,
Confirmed by His pow­er, you stood.

Ye saints who stand near­er than they,
And cast your bright crowns at His feet,
His grace and His glo­ry dis­play,
And all His rich mer­cy repeat:
He snatched you from hell and the grave,
He ran­somed from death and des­pair;
For you He was migh­ty to save,
Almighty to bring you safe there.

O when will the pe­ri­od ap­pear
When I shall unite in your song?
I’m wea­ry of lin­ger­ing here,
And I to your Sav­ior be­long;
I’m fet­tered and chained up in clay,
I strug­gle and pant to be free;
I long to be soar­ing away,
My God and my Sav­ior to see.

I want to put on my at­tire,
Washed white in the blood of the Lamb;
I want to be one with your choir,
And tune my sweet harp to His name.
I want—O I want to be there,
Where sor­row and sin bid adieu,
Your joy and your friend­ship to share,
To won­der and wor­ship with you.