I planted a vineyard on a fertile hill Cleared the stones with my own hand I watched it bloom and I watched it spill Wild grapes upon my land The watchtower stands but the song is gone And the press runs dry as bone What more could I have done for you Before I left you all alone In the year that the king lay dead I saw the Lord upon his throne And the seraphim cried out above his head And the doorposts shook like stone Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts The whole earth is His fire And I fell down with unclean lips In the smoke and in the choir Holy, holy, holy The Lord of hosts is here Holy, holy, holy And the proud shall know His fear A call from the altar to the trembling mouth A voice that splits the dark Hear, my Lord, send me out With the burning on my heart Unto us a child shall yet be born Unto us a son is given And the government shall rest upon his shoulder And his name shall come from heaven Wonderful Counselor, mighty God Everlasting Prince of Peace And the wolf shall lie beside the lamb When the kingdoms of men shall cease How art thou fallen, O morning star Who said, I will climb the sky I will set my throne above the stars of God I will lift myself up high But the pit is deep and the pit is cold And the proud shall not ascend For the Lord alone shall be exalted In the day without an end Holy, holy, holy The Lord of hosts is here Holy, holy, holy And the proud shall know His fear A call from the altar to the trembling mouth A voice that splits the dark Here am I, Lord, send me out With the burning on my heart The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold His banners filled the plain And he mocked the God of Jacob from the gate And he called the holy vein But the king went up to the house of the Lord And he spread the letter wide And he said, O Lord, the God of Israel, save us from this time And the angel of the Lord went forth that night through the camp upon the hill And when the morning broke upon the field, the hosts of war were still A hundred and eighty and five thousand fell Where the proud had pitched their tent And the king of Assyria turned for home With his glory broken and spent Holy, holy, holy The Lord of hosts has spoken Holy, holy, holy And the rod of the proud is broken A coal from the altar to the trembling mouth A voice that splits the dark Hearing my Lord send me out With the burning on my heart