O Lord, ’Tis Matter of High Praise

O Lord

’tis mat­ter of high praise

Thy Word on us doth shine

But hap­py they who feel its rays

And glo­ri­ous pow­er di­vine.

O let poor sin­ners feel their sin

Prick them

as with a sword;

And purge out all that filth with­in;

So will we praise Thy Word.

Enlightened souls have cause to sing

Who wound­ed were by Thee;

True cause of joy to such doth spring;

For they

Lord

heal­èd be.

And now in robes most rich­ly decked

They to the King are brought;

Surpassing an­gels

for have they

A robe so rich­ly wrought.

We there­fore throw our crowns be­low

Thy high and glo­ri­ous throne;

And must all say

both night and day

Thou wor­thy art alone

All glo­ry

pow­er

and praise to have

By us for­ev­er­more;

Thus let us sing un­to our king

And Him in heart ad­ore.