Come, tune, ye saints, your noblest strains
L. M.
1
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.
2
In songs of grateful rapture tellHow he subdued your potent foes,Subdued the powers of death and hell,And, dying, finished all your woes.
3
Then to his glorious throne on highReturned, while hymning angels round,Through the bright arches of the sky,The Lord, the conquering Lord, resound.
4
Almighty love! victorious power!Not angel tongues can e'er displayThe wonders of that dreadful hour—The joys of that illustrious day.
5
Dear Savior, let thy wondrous graceFill every heart, and every tongue;Till the full glories of thy faceInspire a sweeter, nobler song.