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 heavn’ly dress,
Her robe 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.
Let endless honors crown his head,
Let ev’ry age his praises spread,
While we with cheerful songs approve
The condescensions of his love.

Recordings 1, 2