Thrice Holy

In the year that King Uzziah died
I saw the Lord up lifted high
With angels all around the sky
Saying holy, holy, holy

Then down from the smoke of that terrible place
A seraph flew fast with a fire in his face,
He seized with the tongs from the altar a coal
And pressed it to lips that were sick to the soul.
He burned what was foul and he branded my shame,
Said, “Guilt's been bled out, son — you're clean of the stain.”
My sin hit the floor like an ash from the grate,
No remnant, no record, no lingering weight.

The doorposts were shaking, the temple still bright,
But mercy burned hotter than terror that night.

So lift up your voice to the Lord on the throne,
The Holy, thrice Holy, no rival He's known!
His glory fills mountains, fills heaven and earth,
And wretches like me get the spirit's new birth!

Then thunder rolled out from the smoke-covered throne,
“Whom shall I send?” — and the words shook the stone.
“What man will go carry the message I bring?
What voice will speak truth to a deaf and blind king?”
I trembled, still smoking from mercy's bright spark,
A clean-lipped commission for one from the dark.
“No training, but willing! No map but Thy hand!
Send me through the fire to that hard-hearted land!”

Though eyes may be blind and though ears may be sealed,
Though hearts be like stone in an unbroken field,
The stump of the oak in the wasteland shall stand —
A holy seed rooted by sovereign command.

So lift up your voice to the Lord on the throne,
The Holy, thrice Holy, no rival He's known!
Though cities lie shattered and forests be torn,
The Seed yet remains and a kingdom is born!