At Thy Command, Our Dearest Lord

At thy command, our dearest Lord,
here we attend thy dying feast;
thy blood like wine adorns thy board,
and thine own flesh feeds ev'ry guest.

Let the vain world pronounce it shame,
and fling their scandals on his cause;
we come to boast our Savior's name,
and make our triumph in his cross.

With joy we tell the scoffing age,
he that was dead has left his tomb:
he lives above their utmost rage,
and we are waiting till he come.