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Creator of the word to Thee


Creator of the world, to Thee
And endless rest of joy belongs;
And heavenly choirs are ever free
To sing on high their festal songs.

But we are fallen creatures here,
Where pain and sorrow daily come;
And how can we in exile drear
Sing out, as they, sweet songs of Home?

O Father, Who dost promise still
That they who mourn shall blessŤd be,
Grant us to weep for deeds of ill
That banish us so long from Thee.

But weeping, grant us faith to rest
In hope upon Thy loving care;
Till Thou restore us, with the blest,
Their songs of praise in Heavín to share.

To Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
The God Whom Heavín and earth adore,
From men and from the angel host
Be praise and glory evermore.













         

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