His hand a golden harp is stringing;
And with a voice serene and clear,
His ransomed soul, without a tear,
His Saviour’s praise is singing!
2 And think that all his pains are fled,
His toils and sorrows closed for ever;
While he, whose blood for man was shed,
Has placed upon his servant’s head
A crown that fadeth never!
3 For thus, while round your lowly bier