Fruit of the mystic rose
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 rose, as of that rose the stem
The root whence mercy ever flows, the Babe of Bethlehem.
Crown Him the Son of God, before the worlds began
And ye who tread where He hath trod, crown Him the Son of Man
Who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast
And takes and bears them for His own, that all in Him may rest.
Crown Him the Lord of life, who triumphed o'er the grave
And rose victorious in the strife for those He came to save
His glories now we sing, Who died and rose on high
Who died eternal life to bring, and lives that death may die.
Crown Him the Lord of peace, Whose pow'r a scepter sways
From pole to pole, that wars may cease, and all be pray'r and praise
His reign shall know no end, and round His piercèd feet
Fair flow'rs of paradise extend their fragrance ever sweet.
Crown Him the Lord of love, behold His hands and side
Those wounds yet visible above, in beauty glorified
No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight
But downward bends his wond'ring eye at mysteries so bright.
Crown Him the Lord of Heav'n, enthroned in worlds above,
Crown Him the King to Whom is giv'n the wondrous name of Love.
Crown Him with many crowns, as thrones before Him fall;
Crown Him, ye kings, with many crowns, for He is King of all.
Crown Him the Lord of lords, Who over all doth reign
Who once on earth the incarnate Word, for ransomed sinners slain
Now lives in realms of light, where saints with angels sing
Their songs before Him day and night, their God, Redeemer, King.
Crown Him the Lord of years, the Potentate of time
Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime
All hail, Redeemer, hail! For Thou hast died for me
Thy praise and glory shall not fail throughout eternity.
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