Now, my tongue, the mystery telling Of the glorious Body sing, And the Blood, all price excelling, Which the Gentiles Lord and King, Once on earth among us dwelling, Shed for this world's ransoming. Given for us, and condescending To be born for us below, He with us in converse blending Dwelt, the seed of truth to sow, Till He closed with wondrous ending His most patient life of woe. That last night at supper lying Mid the Twelve, His chosen band, Jesus, with the Law complying, Keeps the feast its rites demand; Then, more precious food supplying, Gives Himself with His own hand. Word made flesh, the bread He taketh, By His word His Flesh to be; Wine His sacred Blood He maketh, Though the senses fails to see; Faith alone the true heart waketh To behold the mystery. Glory let us give and blessing To the Father and the Son, Honor, thanks, and praise addressing, While eternal ages run; Ever too His love confessing Who from both with both is One.