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Praise to the Lord from all who breath,
He clothed himself in clay,
Entered the iron gates of death,
And tore the bars away.
Death is no more a dreadful king,
Since our Redeemer rose;
Dying, he took away its sting,
And spoiled our hellish foes.
They saw him reach the highest heaven,
his angels saw him rise;
And countless souls to him were given,
His promised blood-bought prize.
Now let our humble heartfelt songs,
Ascend to his abode;
For all that we can give, belongs
To our incarnate God.
And while the earth its tribute brings
Through its appointed days,
May heaven and all created things,
Sound forth his endless praise.
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marker 99
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LIST OF LYRIC SOURCES
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Hymn/Song Book
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Year
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Song #
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| 1853 | # 452 |
echo ' | ';
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Hymn Writer
