O Tyre, crowned em­press of the sea,
Proud mer­chant for the isles,
How at thy fall the princ­es flee,
And kings di­vide thy spoils.

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The em­pires of man pass away,
The ci­ty of God shall en­dure,
No foe can her glo­ry de­lay,
The pro­mise of God stand­eth sure.

Thy tem­ple pil­lars strew the wave,
Thy songs are heard no more.
No sound now breaks thy still­ness save
The surg­es on thy shore.

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Because against Je­ho­vah’s land
Was heard thy im­pi­ous boast,
In right­eous wrath His migh­ty hand
Hath swept thee from thy coast.

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O Tyre, along thy lone­ly shore,
The na­tions walk and wail;
To Zi­on—Mount of God—I soar,
Whose word can ne­ver fail.

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In hea­ven­ly gar­ni­ture ap­pears
The ci­ty of His love;
Its gold­en harp­ings thrill my ears—
Jerusalem above!

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