Pange Lingua

Sing, my tongue, the Saviour’s glory,
of his Flesh the mystery sing;
of the Blood, all price exceeding,
shed by our immortal King,
destined, for the world’s redemption,
from a noble womb to spring.

Of a pure and spotless Virgin
born for us on earth below,
he, as Man, with man conversing,
stayed, the seeds of truth to sow;
then he closed in solemn order
wondrously his life of woe.

On the night of that Last Supper,
seated with his chosen band,
he the Paschal victim eating,
first fulfils the Law’s command;
then as Food to all his brethren
gives himself with his own hand.

Word made Flesh, the bread of nature
by his word to Flesh he turns;
wine into his Blood he changes;
what though sense no change discerns?
Only be the heart in earnest,
faith her lesson quickly learns.

Down in adoration falling,
this great Sacrament we hail;
over ancient forms departing
newer rites of grace prevail;
faith for all defects supplying,
where the feeble senses fail.

To the everlasting Father
and the Son who reigns on high,
with the Holy Spirit proceeding
forth from each eternally,
be salvation, honour, blessing,
might, and endless majesty. Amen.