Their quills did dance where mortal tongues aspire,
Charles Wesley cried, “And can it be, my chains”
Fell off, my heart unbound by love’s own fire,”
A friend in Christ triumphant o’er our pains.
Then Fanny, blind yet seeing glory’s gleam,
Proclaimed, “This is my story,” bold and free,
“Blessed assurance,” Jesus reigns supreme,
Our truest friend through all eternity.
And Whitefield’s voice, with herald angels’ call,
Did thunder, “Glory to the newborn King,”
A victor’s hymn to shatter Satan’s thrall,
In every soul salvation’s joy to ring.
These saints of old, with ink and faith arrayed,
Exalt our Friend, whose throne shall stand unscathed.