A Song of Praise for the Lord's Supper

O Praise the Lord! praise him, praise him,
Sing Praises to his Name;
O all ye Saints of Heav'n and Earth,
Extol and Laud the same;
Who spared not his only Son,
But gave Him for us all;
And made him drink the Cup of Wrath,
The Wormwood and the Gall.

Frail Nature shrunk, and did request
That bitter Cup might pass;
But he must drink it off, and this
The Fathers Pleasure was:
Lo then I come to do thy Will,
His blessed Son reply'd;
Yielding Himself to God and Man,
He stretch'd his Arms and dy'd.

He Dy'd indeed, but Rose again,
And did ascend on High;
That we poor Sinners lost and dead,
Might Live Eternally:
Good Lord, how many Souls in Hell,
Doth Vengeance vex and tear;
Were it not for a Dying Christ,
Our Dwelling had been there.

His Blood was shed instead of ours,
His Soul our Hell did bear;
He took our Sin, gave us Himself,
What an Exchange is here!
Whatever is not Hell it self,
For me it is too good:
But must we Eat the Flesh of Christ?
And must we Drink his Blood?

His Flesh is Heav'nly Food indeed,
His Blood is Drink Divine;
His Graces drop, like Honey falls,
His Comforts taste like Wine;
Sweet Christ, thou hast refresh'd our Souls,
With thine abundant Grace;
For which we magnifie thy Name,
Longing to see thy Face.

When shall our Souls mount up to Thee,
Most Holy, Just, and True,
To eat that Bread, and drink that Wine;
Which is for ever New?