O Zion, of your God beloved, The day of strife is nigh, Yet comes He not with armour clad, And sword upon His thigh; The weapons of your mighty King No other hand could wield, The might of God is in His arm, The will of God His shield.
See, on the cross, without the wall, The King Immortal dies; Not now hosannas fill the air,-- The shouts of hell arise; But in that hour of triumph, deemed, Satanic might is slain, For He Who bows the head in death, Shall rise to life again.
O Zion, hail your mighty King, Your palms around Him wave, And strew your garments in the way Of Him Who rides to save; And when He mounts His regal throne, By bloody conflict won, Give homage to the King of heaven, God's One Eternal Son.
Waving in the autumn breeze, Clap your hands, ye forest trees, For the arms that now entwine Needy souls, were stretched on thine.
And the cross that bore the weight Of the Christ, Creator great, By the power that still remains, All the universe sustains.
Emblem, by the Church adored; Might, that wields the kingly sword; Glory, of the ransomed host; Agony, of spirits lost.
Cross of Christ! we lift our eyes And behold the sacrifice; For the arms that now entwine Needy souls, were stretched on thine.
When in the clouds of heaven The Lord, the Judge, appears, When memory brings my sin to light, And conscience fills with fears,-- In mercy, Lord, have mercy then, Nor rank my soul with wicked men.
I have no plea to give, The sin is all my own, I cannot bear the searching glance Nor for that sin atone; I can alone that mercy crave,-- O Lord, Thine erring servant save.
Didst Thou not come to earth? Didst Thou not die for me? And all my sin in mercy bear Upon the awful tree? I claim that sacrifice, and pray, Turn not my erring soul away.
The record of my sin, In mercy, Lord, remove, And to a place at Thy right hand Call Thou my soul, in love; That love divine I make my plea, O may that love encircle me.
Rest in the Lord, O servant by His grace, Dwell in His courts, and gaze upon His face, Know nought of toil, of weariness, or woe, They rest who serve, not weary, as below.
Rest in the Lord, the strife of war is past, Wear now the wreath of victory at last; E'en death is slain,--the cross of Christ sufficed, Death is not death, to those who live in Christ.