The Stennetts of England - Samuel Stennett D.D. - Hymn Poems

Here at thy table, Lord! we meet

   Here at thy table, Lord! we meet
To feed on food divine:
Thy body is the bread we eat,
Thy precious blood the wine.

He that prepares the rich repast,
Himself comes down and dies;
And then invites us thus to feast
Upon the sacrifice.

The bitter torments he endured
Upon the shameful cross,
For us, his welcome guests, procured
These heart-reviving joys.

His body, torn with rudest hands,
Becomes the finest bread;
And with the blessing he commands,
Our noblest hopes are fed.

His blood, that from each op'ning vein
In purple torrents ran,
Hath filled this cup with gen'rous wine,
That cheers both God and man.

Sure there was never love so free,
Dear Saviour! so divine!
Well thou may'st claim that heart of me,
Which owes so much to thine.

Yes, thou shalt surely have my heart,
My soul, my strength, my all:
With life itself I'll freely part,
My Jesus! at thy call.

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