What by the great pow’rs of glory divine
Is greater than the high might of our world?
Only one exists so wondrous and fine,
Which o’er God’s fair creatures extends its hold.

In freedom it dwells and all fears shall drown,
A force from God, sovereign and maternal.
The high of the high, ‘tis the English crown,
With majesty and power eternal.

Oh, ye grand monarchs of ages gone by,
And ye great kings of times now seldom past.
Thy history shall ne’er fade and ne’er die,
And thy sober line shall ne’er reach its last.

Thou art the shining children of the sun,
Thou art the Lord’s anointed to command,
Thou art the grandeur which glory begun,
Thou art the royal monarchs of England.

‘Tis for thee that these fair praises are sung,
And ‘tis thee who shall help these words to grow.
Songs of triumph shall be gloriously rung,
Whilst in the seas of the past shall we row.

So, come, ye muses that e’er do inspire,
With thy wondrous beauty these verses fill.
Let them be sung as a celestial choir,
Fair to the kings magnified by this quill.

Then come, ye grandiose inspiration,
Grant me jubilant words and a grand voice,
Grant to all monarchs glorification,
And let us all with them greatly rejoice.

Ring in tunes of glory and loudly sing,
Whilst cherubim’s choirs sing from up to down:
May you live forever, majestic King;
Ne’er forget the power of thy wondrous crown.