Thou, God, art a consuming fire,

Yet mortals may find grace,

From toil and tumult to retire,

And meet Thee face to face.

Though "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord!"

Seraph to seraph sings,

And angel-choirs, with one accord,

Worship, with veiling wings;--

Though earth Thy footstool, heaven Thy throne,

Thy way amidst the sea,

Thy path deep floods, Thy steps unknown,

Thy counsels mystery:--

Yet wilt Thou look on him who lies

A suppliant at Thy feet;

And hearken to the feeblest cries

That reach Thy mercy-seat.

Between the cherubim of old

Thy glory was express'd;

But God, through Christ, we now behold

In flesh made manifest.

Through Him who all our sickness felt,

Who all our sorrows bare,

Through Him in whom Thy fulness dwelt

We offer up our prayer.

Touch'd with a feeling of our woes,

Jesus, our High Priest, stands;

All our infirmities He knows,

Our souls are in His hands.

He bears them up with strength divine,

When at Thy feet we fall;

Lord, cause, Thy face on us to shine

Hear us,--on Thee we call.