The True Image: A hymn

God's image true, his very form,

took servant's shape, of woman born.

He stooped so low, nailed to a cross,

His visage marred, his beauty lost,

For our transgressions pierced.

By man came sin and loss and grief,

by Christ the Man came our relief.

Our lost and hopeless dying race
redeemed by free and priceless grace,
Last Adam cursed for us.

The Son of God in weakness came,

he took our flesh and bore our shame.

But by the Holy Spirit's breath

he rose again, defeating death,

the Son of God with power.

Lord of the living and the dead,

now crowned on high the Church's head.

He rules the world with iron rod

till all that breathe submit to God,
And praise his highest name.

Sung to St. Margaret, the tune which usually accompanies O love that wilt not let me go.