Behold, the King of Zi­on rides,
But not in vain ar­ray;
The peo­ple wave their good­ly palms,
With gar­ments strew the way;
And loud ho­san­nas fill the air
From crowds that, surg­ing, throng;
’Tis meet to hon­or Him who rides
With cheer, and shout, and song.

O Zi­on, of your God be­loved,
The day of strife is nigh,
Yet comes He not with ar­mor 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 ave,
And strew your gar­ments in the way
Of Him who rides to save;
And when He mounts His re­gal throne,
By bloody con­flict on,
Give hom­age to the King of Hea­ven,
God’s one eter­nal Son.