Come, tune, ye saints, your noblest strains

Come, tune, ye saints, your noblest strains,
Your dying, rising Lord to sing;
And echo, to the heavenly plains,
The triumphs of your Savior King.

In songs of grateful rapture tell
How he subdued your potent foes,
Subdued the powers of death and hell,
And, dying, finished all your woes.

Then to his glorious throne on high
Returned, while hymning angels round,
Through the bright arches of the sky,
The Lord, the conquering Lord, resound.

Almighty love! victorious power!
Not angel tongues can e'er display
The wonders of that dreadful hour—
The joys of that illustrious day.

Dear Savior, let thy wondrous grace
Fill every heart, and every tongue;
Till the full glories of thy face
Inspire a sweeter, nobler song.