Mighty God, while angels bless Thee,
May we sing Thy glorious Name?
Lord of all the vast creation,
High in honour, power, and fame;
Children though we be, and sinful,
Wilt Thou, Lord, our song disdain?
Children praised Thee in the temple;
We would praise Thee, Lord, again.

Child of sorrows once was Jesus,
Mean His lot, His mother poor;
Love like His should sure amaze us,
Who can tell the griefs He bore?
Oft the day He spent in troubles;
Oft the night in secret prayer;
Sinners, whom He loved so dearly,
Little thought what love was there.

All His holy ways mistaken,
All His gracious words denied;
Stretched upon the cross, forsaken,
There He bowed His head and died.
’Twas to save His saints from dying,
He did suffer on the tree;
If upon His blood relying,
Who so happy, Lord, as we?