Crown him with many crowns,
the Lamb upon his throne.
Hark! How the heav'nly anthem drowns
all music but its own.
Awake, my soul, and sing
of him who died for thee,
And hail him as thy matchless king
thru all eternity.

Crown him the virgin's Son,
the God incarnate born,
whose arm those crimson trophies won
which now his brow adorn;
fruit of the mystic rose,
yet of that rose the stem,
the root whence mercy ever flows,
the babe of Bethlehem.

Crown him the Lord of love--
behold his hands and side,
tich wounds, yet visible above,
in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky
can fully bear that sight,
but downward bend their burning eyes
at mysteries so bright.

Crown Him the Lord of life,
who triumphed o'er the grave,
and rose victorious in the strife
for those he came to save.
His glories now we sing,
who died, and rose on high,
who died eternal life to bring,
and lives that death may die.

Crown him the Lord of years,
the potentate of time,
creator of the rolling spheres,
ineffably sublime.
All hail, Redeemer, hail!
For thou hast died for me;
thy praise and glory shall not fail
throughout eternity.