Ye Angels Who Stand Round the Throne

Ye an­gels who stand round the throne

And view my Im­ma­nu­el’s face

In rap­tur­ous songs make Him known;

O tune your soft harps to His praise.

He formed you the spir­its you are

So hap­py

so no­ble

so good;

While oth­ers sank down in des­pair

Confirmed by His pow­er

you stood.

Ye saints who stand near­er than they

And cast your bright crowns at His feet

His grace and His glo­ry dis­play

And all His rich mer­cy re­peat:

He snatched you from hell and the grave

He ran­somed from death and des­pair;

For you He was migh­ty to save

Almighty to bring you safe there.

O when will the pe­ri­od ap­pear

When I shall unite in your song?

I’m wea­ry of lin­ger­ing here

And I to your Sav­ior be­long;

I’m fet­tered and chained up in clay

I strug­gle and pant to be free;

I long to be soar­ing away

My God and my Sav­ior to see.

I want to put on my at­tire

Washed white in the blood of the Lamb;

I want to be one with your choir

And tune my sweet harp to His name.

I want—O I want to be there

Where sor­row and sin bid ad­ieu

Your joy and your friend­ship to share

To won­der and wor­ship with you.