Ye holy angel bright,
Who wait at God’s right hand,
Or through the realms of light
Fly at your Lord’s command,
Assist our song,
Or else the theme too high
Doth seem for mortal tongue.
Ye blessèd souls at rest,
Who see your Saviour’s face,
Whose glory, e’en the least
Is far above our grace,
God’s praises sound,
As in His sight
With sweet delight
Ye do abound.
Ye saints who toil below,
Adore your heavenly King,
And onward as ye go,
Some joyful anthem sing;
Take what He gives,
And praise Him still
Through good and ill,
Who ever lives.
My soul, bear thou thy part,
Triumph in God above,
And with a well-tuned heart
Sing thou the songs of love.
Let all thy days
Till life shall end,
Whate’er He send,
Be filled with praise.
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