I see Thee stand, O Lamb of God,
On Zion's mountain peak:
But oh, the path that Thou hast trod
So long, so hard, so bleak!
On Thee was laid the weight of blame
Of all our sin and shame;
How deep Thou sankest in our whoe
No man can ever know.

O spotless Lamb that on the tree
Receiv'd the cruel wound!
O boundless love! To set us free
He in our chains was bound.
He wore and brok our prison bands
With pierced feet and hands;
A Victor bold the tomb He broke,
Gave death its mortal stroke.

Behold them stand around His throne,
Those legions snowy white;
Each eye is gleaming like the sun
At this most wondrous sight.
The story of grim Calvary
On which He made us free,
Is still among the angels' throng
The noblest, sweetest song.

Twelve thousand twelve are holding now
Their harps before the throne,
The Father's name upon each brow
Marks them the Savior's own.
As mighty, rushing billows roar,
They shout forevermore:
To Him who won us from our plight
Be glory, praise and might!

We thank Thee, Father, for Thy love
To Adam's fallen race;
Thou sentest Jesus from above
To die in sinners' place.
Praise we his name with fleeting breath,
Praise Him in life and death;
To Him who suffered on the tree
Praise through eternity.

Jeg seer dig, søde Lam, at staae
Paa Zions Bierge-Top.
Men ak! den Vej du maatte gaae,
Saa tung, saa trang derop.
O! Byrde, som paa dig var kast,
Al Verdens Skam og Last.
Saa sank du i vor Jammer ned,
Saa dybt, som ingen veed.

Uskyldig Lam! saa ynkelig
Du vilde ofres hen.
Din Kierlighed har bunden dig,
At faae os løst igien.
Du leed og sleed vor Fængsels Baand
Med naglet Fod og Haand.
Du gik som Løve af din Grav.
Vor Død du plyndred' af.

Hvor vrimler nu omkring din Stoel
En Flok saa hviid, som Snee.
Hvert Øje glimrer, som en Soel,
At det Guds Lam maae see.
Det Ord om Lammets Slaverie,
For os, for os at frie,
Giør, mit blant alle Englers Sang,
Endnu den sterkest' Klang.

Tolv gang tolv tusind' har i Favn
Enhver sin Harpe spendt.
I Panden Lammets Faders Navn
Giør al den Slægt bekiendt.
Det gaaer, som sterke Vandes Lyd,
Naar de slaae an i Fryd:
Guds Lam, som vandt os Paradiis,
Dig, dig Lof, Tak og Priis.

Tak Abba! at du var saa god
Mod Adams faldne Kiøn;
Og os til Frelse slagte lod
Din den eenbaarne Søn.
Din prise nu hvert Aande-Drag,
Hvert Hierte-Pik og Slag.
Ja Lam! for al den Deel, du leed,
Tak, tak i Ævighed!