Crown Him with many crowns,

The Lamb upon His throne;

Hark! How the heav'nly anthem drowns

All music but its own!

Awake, my soul, and sing

Of Him who died for thee,

And hail Him as thy matchless King

Through all eternity.

Crown Him the Virgin's Son,

The God Incarnate born,

Whose arm those crimson trophies won

Which now His brow adorn:

Fruit of the mystic Tree,

As of that Tree the Stem;

The Root whence flows Thy mercy free,

The Babe of Bethlehem.

Crown Him the Lord of Love:

Behold His hands and side;

Rich wounds yet visible above

In beauty glorified:

No angel in the sky

Can fully bear that sight,

But downward bends his burning eye

At mysteries so bright.

Crown Him the Lord of peace,

Whose power a scepter sways

From pole to pole, that wars may cease,

And all be prayer and praise.

His reign shall know no end,

And round His piercèd feet

Fair flowers of glory now extend

Their fragrance ever sweet.

Crown Him the Lord of years,

The Potentate of time,

Creator of the rolling spheres,

Ineffably sublime.

All hail, Redeemer, hail!

For Thou hast died for me;

Thy praise shall never, never fail

Throughout eternity.