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,

stay'd, 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 His Apostles

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,

lo! the sacred Host we hail;

lo! o'er 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 Ghost proceeding

forth from each eternally,

be salvation, honour, blessing,

might and endless majesty. Amen.