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 of 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