The Lord un­to my Lord thus spake:
Till I Thy foes Thy foot­stool make,
Sit Thou in state at My right hand;
Supreme in Zi­on Thou shalt be,
And all Thy proud op­pos­ers see
Subjected to Thy just com­mand.

Thee, in Thy pow­er’s tri­um­phant day,
The will­ing peo­ple shall ob­ey;
And, when Thy ris­ing beams they view,
Shall all (re­deemed from er­ror’s night)
Appear more nu­mer­ous and bright
Than crys­tal drops of morn­ing dew.

The Lord hath sworn, nor sworn in vain,
That, like Mel­chi­ze­dek’s, Thy reign
And priest­hood shall no pe­ri­od see;
Anointed Prince! Thou, bend­ing low,
Shalt drink where dark­est tor­rents flow,
Then raise Thy head in vic­to­ry!