First of mar­tyrs, thou whose name
Doth thy gold­en crown pro­claim,
Not of flow­ers that fade away
Weave we this thy crown to­day.

Bright the stones which bruise thee gleam
Sprinkled with thy life blood’s stream;
Stars around thy saint­ed head
Never could such ra­di­ance shed.

Every wound up­on thy brow
Sparkles with un­earth­ly glow;
Like an an­gel’s is thy face
Beaming with ce­les­ti­al grace.

Oh, how bless­èd first to be
Slain for Him who bled for thee;
First like Him in dy­ing hour
Witness to al­migh­ty pow­er.

First to fol­low where He trod
Through the deep Red Sea of blood;
First, but in thy foot­steps press
Saints and mar­tyrs num­ber­less.

Glory to the Fa­ther be,
Glory, vir­gin born, to Thee,
Glory to the Ho­ly Ghost,
Praised by men and hea­ven­ly host.