1.

Lord of lords, O my King above,
In courts of heaven so holy,
Yet to dust You descend with love,
Dwell with the poor and the lowly.
Heav’n can’t hold You, and yet within
Vessels of clay You reside,
Cleansing their lives from their shame and sin—
Until they’re as gold purified.

2.

In the contrite You choose to dwell,
Healing the hearts that are broken;
Yet they’ll never that heart-pain quell
Who don’t believe when You’ve spoken.
Unto You, Lord, my soul has cried,
“You are my fortress secure.”
Those who in cov’nant with You abide
Will praise You though grief they endure.

3.

You free captives and lead them out,
Breaking their chains of oppression;
You break fetters of sin and doubt,
That we may be Your possession.
Jesus Christ, God’s beloved Son,
Fashions a bride from the clay.
Garments she weaves—works in God she’s done
She’ll wear soon as shining array.

Written by Hanna Eriksen (published in 1929)Composed by Jørgen P. SantonText © Stiftelsen Skjulte Skatters ForlagNorway ⋅ D