Christ the King at his table.
Let him embrace my soul, and prove
Mine interest in his heav’nly love;
The voice that tells me, “Thou art mine,”
Exceeds the blessings of the vine.
On thee th’ anointing Spirit came,
And spreads the savor of thy name;
That oil of gladness and of grace
Draws virgin souls to meet thy face.
Jesus, allure me by thy charms,
My soul shall fly into thine arms!
Our wand’ring feet thy favors bring
To the fair chambers of the King.
[Wonder and pleasure tune our voice
To speak thy praises and our joys;
Our memory keeps this love of thine
Beyond the taste of richest wine.]
Though in ourselves deformed we are,
And black as Kedar’s tents appear,
Yet, when we put thy beauties on,
Fair as the courts of Solomon.
[While at his table sits the King,
He loves to see us smile and sing;
Our graces are our best perfume,
And breathe like spikenard round the room.]
As myrrh new bleeding from the tree,
Such is a dying Christ to ine
And while he makes my soul his guest,
My bosom, Lord, shall be thy rest.
[No beams of cedar or of fir
Can with thy courts on earth compare;
And here we wait, until thy love
Raise us to nobler seats above.]