Who could have ever imagined
the depths He would descend?
From His Father’s home, Father’s throne,
angels’ gaze, heaven’s dome,
down, down, to the nether regions,
home of men and Legions.
Humble, He, to shame the mighty;
meek at heart, not sightly.
Further still now descends He down,
bearing cross, wearing crown.
Up He gets to the lowest spot:
Golgotha, God’s wrath hot.
Broken the body, torn the veil,
o’er all He did prevail.
‘O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?’
I sing a brand new melody
to such a risen King!
Hallelujah! My Lord does reign,
good, He does, everything!
Up with Him I rise in spirit,
Dusk gone! Dawn appeareth!
The grass stands like the Son of Man,
flowers bloom by His hand;
I hear His voice and see His face,
I fill His courts with praise!
“What is grace but glory begun?
Glory is grace in bud.”*
*Expression adapted from Thomas Brooks, Heaven on Earth
