HYMN 15. (C. M.) Our Lord Jesus at his own Table.
I
The memory of our dying Lord
Awakes a thankful tongue:
How rich he spread his royal board,
And blest the food, and sung.
II
Happy the men that eat this bread,
But double blest was he
That gently bow'd his loving head,
And lean'd it, Lord, on thee.
III
By faith the same delights we taste
As that great favourite did,
And sit and lean on Jesus' breast,
And take the heavenly bread.
IV
Down from the palace of the skies
Hither the King descends,
‘Come, my beloved, eat, (he cries)
‘And drink salvation, friends.
V
‘My flesh is food and physic too,
‘A balm for all your pains:
‘And the red streams of pardon flow
‘From these my pierced veins.’
VI
Hosanna to his bounteous love
For such a taste below!
And yet he feeds his saints above
With nobler blessings too.
VII
Come the dear day, the glorious hour
That brings our souls to rest!
Then we shall need these types no more,
But dwell at th'heavenly feast.
