I cannot tell why he, whom angels worship,
Should set his love upon the sons of men,
Or why, as Shepherd, he should seek the wanderers,
To bring them back, they know not how or when.
But this I know, that he was born of Mary,
When Bethlehem's manger was his only home,
And that he lived at Nazareth and laboured,
And so the Saviour, Saviour of the world, is come.
I cannot tell how silently he suffered,
As with his peace he graced this place of tears,
Or how his heart upon the cross was broken,
The crown of pain to three and thirty years.
But this I know, he heals the broken-hearted,
And stays our sin, and calms our lurking fear,
And lifts the burden from the heavy laden,
For yet the Saviour, Saviour of the world, is here.
I cannot tell how all the lands shall worship,
When, at his bidding, every storm is stilled,
Or who can say how great the jubilation
When all the hearts of men with love are filled.
But this I know, the skies will thrill with rapture,
And myriad, myriad human voices sing,
And Earth to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth, will answer:
Jesus the Saviour, Saviour of the world, is King!
When at his bidding every storm is stilled,
Or who can say how great the jubilation
When every heart with love and joy is filled.
But this I know, the skies will thrill with rapture,
And myriad myriad human voices sing,
And earth to heav'n, and heav'n to earth, will answer,
'At last the Saviour, Saviour of the world, is King!'