Psalm 45 Poem by Isaac Watts
Christ and His Church; or, The Mystical Marriage
The King of saints, how fair his face;
Adorn’d with majesty and grace!
He comes with blessings from above,
And wins the nations to his love.
At his right hand our eyes behold
The Queen array’d in purest gold;
The world admires her heav’nly dress;
Her robes of joy and righteousness.
He forms her beauties like his own,
He calls and seats her near his throne;
Fair stranger, let thine heart forget
The idols of thy native state.
So shall the King the more rejoice
In thee, the fav’rite of his choice;
Let him be lov’d and yet ador’d,
For he’s thy Maker and thy Lord.
Oh happy hour, when thou shalt rise
To his fair palace in the skies,
And all thy sons (a num’rous train)
Each like a Prince in glory reign.
Let endless honours crown his head;
Let ev’ry age his praises spread;
While we with cheerful songs approve
The condescension of his love.