Hark, ’tis our heav’n­ly lead­er’s voice
From His tri­um­phant seat:
’Midst all the war’s tu­mult­uous noise,
How pow­er­ful, and how sweet!

Fight on, My faith­ful band, He cries,
“Nor fear the mor­tal blow;
Who first in such a war­fare dies
Shall spee­di­est vic­to­ry know.

“I have My days of com­bat known,
And in the dust was laid,
But thence I mount­ed to My throne,
And glo­ry crowns My head.

That throne, that glo­ry you shall share;
My hands the crown shall give;
And you the spark­ling hon­ors wear,
While God Him­self shall live.

Lord, ’tis enough; our bo­soms glow
With cour­age, and with love:
Thine hand shall bear Thy sol­diers thro’,
And raise their heads above.

My soul, while deaths be­set me round,
Erects her ar­dent eyes,
And longs, thro’ some il­lus­tri­ous wound,
To rush and seize the prize.