The Glory of Christ. Phil. 2. 10; Ps. 45. 1-7

I. Watts                  C.M.

O the delights, the heavenly joys,
The glories of the place,
Where Jesus sheds the brightest beams
Of his o’erflowing grace.

Sweet majesty and awful love
Sit smiling on his brow,
And all the glorious ranks above
At humble distance bow.

[Princes to his imperial name
Bend their bright sceptres down;
Dominions, thrones, and powers rejoice
To see him wear the crown.]

Blest angels sound his lofty praise
Through every heavenly street,
And lay their highest honours down,
Submissive at his feet.

[Those soft, those blessed feet of his,
That once rude iron tore,
High on a throne of light they stand,
And all the saints adore.]

[His head, the dear majestic head,
That cruel thorns did wound,
See what immortal glories shine,
And circle it around.]

This is the Man, the exalted Man,
Whom we, unseen, adore;
But when our eyes behold his face,
Our hearts shall love him more.

[Lord, how our souls are all on fire
To see thy blest abode!
Our tongues rejoice in tunes of praise
To our incarnate God.

And while our faith enjoys this sight,
We long to leave our clay;
And wish thy fiery chariots, Lord,
To fetch our souls away.]