The Lord of hosts, th’al­migh­ty Lord,
Shall pun­ish in that venge­ful day,
Shall with His Spir­it’s two-edged sword
The pierc­ing, crook­ed ser­pent slay.

Leviathan, that sub­tle fiend,
That soul-in­si­nu­at­ing foe,
Jesus shall make his ma­lice end,
And root out all our sins be­low.

Jesus shall make us free in­deed,
Redeem from all ini­qui­ty,
And crush the hell­ish ser­pent’s head,
And slay the dra­gon in the sea.

The sea is calmed, the trou­bled soul,
In which he did his pas­time take;
The sin­ner now by faith made whole,
Can ne­ver more his God for­sake.

Sing to the Church in that glad day,
(The Church is joined to those above,
When all their sins are washed away,
And they are per­fect made in love:

Partakers of the life di­vine,
When grace the full sal­va­tion brings)
Sing ye, a vine­yard of red wine,
A vine­yard for the King of kings!

“I keep it, I th’al­migh­ty Lord,
My Spir­it ev­ery mo­ment pour,
Descends the wa­ter and the Word,
The gra­cious ne­ver-ceas­ing show­er.

“I wa­ter it with heav’n­ly dew,
Satan and sin I chase away,
I wa­ter it, and keep it, too,
I watch My vine­yard night and day.

“Fury is not in Me; to all
To all My mer­cies free­ly move:
Who would re­sist My gra­cious call,
Or spurn the bow­els of My love?

“Who against Me would mad­ly dare
To set the thorns and bri­ers in fight?
Through all I would My pas­sage tear,
And tram­ple on their fee­ble might.

“The soul that will not taste My love
Shall per­ish by My right­eous ire,
My venge­ful in­dig­na­tion prove,
And feel Me a con­sum­ing fire.

“But ra­ther let Him free­ly take
A pow­er from Me to turn and live;
Peace with his God he then shall make,
And Christ in­to his heart re­ceive.

“My Son from all, who come to Him,
Shall eve­ry spot of sin re­move,
From all ini­qui­ty re­deem,
And root and ’stab­lish them in love.

“Grafted in Him, they all shall share
The life, and fat­ness of the root,
And ev­ery ho­ly tem­per bear,
And fill the world with gold­en fruit.

The trees of right­eous­ness shall rise,
Watered each mo­ment from above,
And bear the fruits of pa­ra­dise,
The glo­ri­ous fruits of per­fect love.