Lo, Round The Throne, A Glorious Band,
The Saints In Countless Myriads Stand,
Of Every Tongue Redeemed To God,
Arrayed In Garments Washed In Blood.
Through Tribulation Great They Came;
They Bore The Cross, Despised The Shame;
From All Their Labours Now They Rest,
In God’s Eternal Glory Blest.
They See Their Saviour Face To Face,
And Sing The Triumphs Of His Grace;
Him Day And Night They Ceaseless Praise,
To Him The Loud Thanksgiving Raise:
‘Worthy The Lamb, For Sinners Slain,
Through Endless Years To Live And Reign;
Thou Hast Redeemed Us By Thy Blood,
And Made Us Kings And Priests To God.’
O May We Tread The Sacred Road
That Saints And Holy Martyrs Trod;
Wage To The End The Glorious Strife,
And Win, Like Them, A Crown Of Life.
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