Pange Lingua

Sing, my tongue, the Saviour's glory, of his flesh the myst'ry 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,
human now, with us conversing stayed, 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 fulfills 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.

Down in adoration falling lo, the sacred host we hail;
lo, o'er ancient forms departing newer rites of grace prevail,
faith, for all defects supplying where the feeble senses fail.

To the everlasting Father and the Son who reigns on high,
with the Spirit Blest proceeding forth from each eternally,
be salvation, honour, blessing, might and endless majesty.