Carver Commodore

 








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​ Crown Him with many crowns, The Lamb upon His throne; Hark! how the heav’nly anthem drowns All music but its own! Awake, my soul, and sing Of Him who died for thee, And hail Him as thy matchless King Through all eternity. Crown Him the Virgin’s Son, The God Incarnate born, Whose arm those crimson trophies won Which now His brow adorn: Fruit of the mystic Tree, As of that Tree the Stem; The Root whence flows Thy mercy free, The Babe of Bethlehem. Crown Him the Lord of Love: Behold His hands and side; Rich wounds yet visible above In beauty glorified: No angel in the sky Can fully bear that sight, But downward bends his burning eye At mysteries so bright. Crown Him the Lord of peace, Whose power a scepter sways From pole to pole, that wars may cease, And all be prayer and praise. His reign shall know no end, And round His pierced feet Fair flowers of glory now extend Their fragrance ever sweet. Crown Him the Lord of years, The Potentate of time...
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