Coldham’s Brook 11s

What glories surrounding my savior I see!
What beauties triumphant, my Jesus in thee!
What glory or power may with thee compare,
Or thy generation with tongue can declare?
The Heavens are silent and cannot decide,
The mystery only belongs to the bride.

Thine offspring for number as sands on the shore,
Or morning dew drops on the earth scattered o'er,
Were then as thy mystery, fullness, and truth,
All gathered in thee as the dew of thy youth:
In thee as thy splendour of youth did we shine;
In beauties of holiness, godlike, divine.