Come, tune, ye saints, your noblest strains

1Come, tune, ye saints, your noblest strains, Your dying, rising Lord to sing; And echo, to the heavenly plains, The triumphs of your Savior King.

2In songs of grateful rapture tell How he subdued your potent foes, Subdued the powers of death and hell, And, dying, finished all your woes.

3Then to his glorious throne on high Returned, while hymning angels round, Through the bright arches of the sky, The Lord, the conquering Lord, resound.

4Almighty love! victorious power! Not angel tongues can e'er display The wonders of that dreadful hour— The joys of that illustrious day.

5Dear Savior, let thy wondrous grace Fill every heart, and every tongue; Till the full glories of thy face Inspire a sweeter, nobler song.