The foes of Zi­on quake for fright,
Where no fear was they quail;
For well they know that sword of might
Which cuts through coats of mail.

The Lord of old de­filed their shields,
And laughed their spears to scorn,
Their bones lay scat­tered o’er the field,
By dogs and vul­tures torn.

Let Zi­on’s foes be filled with shame;
Her sons are blessed of God;
Though scoff­ers now des­pise their name
The Lord shall break their rod.

Oh, would our God to Zi­on turn,
God with sal­va­tion clad;
Then Ju­dah’s harps should mu­sic learn,
And Is­ra­el be glad.