The burning glories of the God-head fill
His soul with grandeur, and in holy awe
They fell upon the ground and cried for grace,
Lest they should die beholding God’s own Face.
As minor chords that sob from strings of gold
The Master speaks in accents sweet and sad:
The vision past, the chosen three behold
No one but Jesus and their souls are glad.
The awe, the splendor and the glory gone,
How sweet the face of Christ to look upon!