Crown him with many crowns,
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Crown him with many crowns, The Lamb upon his throne; Hark! how the heavenly 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 Rose, As of that Rose the Stem; The Root whence mercy ever flows, The Babe of Bethlehem. Crown him the Lord of love; Behold his hands and side, Those 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 sceptre sways From pole to pole, that wars may cease, And all be prayer and praise: His reign shall know no end, And round his pierced feet Fair flowers of Paradise 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. |
Cingite Victimam, qui nactus est thronum. Ut mergit omnem musicam caeleste canticum! Hic pro te mortuus, cantetur, anima: laudetur Rex egregius per quot sunt saecula. Cingite nunc Deum quem Virgo genuit; paravit ei brachium, quae signa frons gerit: is Fructus est Rosae, et Stamen itidem, est Radix is clementiae, is Infans Bethlehem. Cingite, cui amor inflixit vulnera; nunc latus et manus decor distinguit en! supra; quam claritudinem vix angeli ferunt, suamque deorsum aciem candentem dirigunt. Cingitor otii Princeps polum polo ligans, dum iuncta laus preci pugnae stet in loco: regnabit semper is; punctos pedes ei odoribus ambrosiis perfundent flosculi. Cingite temporis potentem Dominum; Creator est globorum is supra volventium. Ave, Redemptor, qui es pro me mortuus. Addetur usque laus tibi saeclis in omnibus. |