O praise ye the Lord, pre­pare a new song,
And let all His saints in full con­cert join;
Ye tribes all as­sem­ble, the feast to pro­long,
In so­lemn pro­cess­ion, with mu­sic di­vine.

O Is­ra­el, in Him that made thee, re­joice,
Let all Zi­on’s sons ex­ult in their king;
While to mar­tial danc­es you join a glad voice,
Your lutes, harps and tim­brels, in har­mo­ny bring.

The Lord in His saints still finds His de­light,
Salvation from Him the meek shall adorn;
They well may be joy­ful, sus­tained by His might,
And crowned by His fa­vor may lift up their horn.

Let car­pets be spread, and ban­quets pre­pared,
Those al­tars around, whence in­cense as­cends;
Whilst an­thems of glo­ry thro’ Sa­lem are heard,
And God, whom we wor­ship, in­dulgent at­tends.

Then as your hearts bound with mu­sic and wine,
Inspired by the God who reigns in the place,
Unsheath all your wea­pons, and bright let them shine,
And bran­dish your fal­chi­ons, while chant­ing His praise.

Then march to the field, the hea­then de­fy,
And scat­ter His wrath on na­tions around;
Like an­gels of ven­geance your swords lift on high,
And boast that Je­ho­vah com­miss­ions the wound.

Their ge­ner­als sub­dued, your tri­umphs shall grace,
And load­ed with chains, their kings shall be brought;
The necks shall ye tram­ple of Ca­naan’s proud race,
And all their last rem­nant for slaugh­ter be sought.

No rage of your own such ri­gor de­mands;
A sen­tence di­vine your arms must ful­fill;
Of old He this ven­geance con­signed to your hands,
And in sac­red vol­umes re­cord­ed His will.

This hon­or, ye saints, ap­point­ed for you,
All-grate­ful re­ceive, and faith­ful ob­ey,
And while this dread plea­sure re­sist­less ye do,
Still make His high prais­es the song of the day.