They have raised thee on high to the right hand of Him
Whom the spells of thy love to thy bosom drew down.
I am blind with thy glory; in all God’s wide world
I find nothing like thee for glory and power:
I can hardly believe that thou grewest on earth,
In the green fields of Juda, a scarce-noticed flower.
And is it not really eternal, divine?
Is it human, created, a glorified heart,
So like God, and not God? Ah, Maker of men,
We bless thee for being the God that thou art.