Sunday, June 26, 2011
Sing, my tongue, the Saviour’s glory,
Of his Flesh the mystery sing;
Of the Blood, all price exceeding,
Shed by our immortal King,
Destined, for the world’s redemption,
From a noble womb to spring.
Of a pure and spotless Virgin
Born for us on earth below,
He, as Man with man conversing,
Stay’d, the seeds of truth to sow;
Then He closed in solemn order
Wondrously his life of woe.
On the night of that Last Supper,
Seated with his chosen band,
He the Paschal victim eating,
First fulfils the Law’s command;
Then, as Food to his Apostles
Gives Himself with his own hand.
Word made Flesh, the bread of nature
By his word to Flesh He turns;
Wine into his Blood He changes: —
What though sense no change discerns?
Only be the heart in earnest,
Faith her lesson quickly learns.
-- Traditional Hymn