Spake the glo­ri­ous Lord in Hea­ven,
Lord, be Thine this roy­al seat,
Till their ar­mies thun­der-riv­en
Bow the neck be­neath Thy feet.
Lo, Thy stan­dards proud­ly flow­ing,
Forth they fare the world to win,
Reign and pros­per, ov­er­throw­ing
All the lords of death and sin.

God with man, an in­fant ten­der
Of a stain­less maid­en born,
Elder than the day-star’s splen­dor,
Purer than the pearls of morn,
By the eter­nal oath ap­point­ed
Of the mys­tic or­der blest,
Thou art vest­ed, throned, anoint­ed,
Evermore a king­ly priest.

When the doom of sin is seal­èd
And the trump of judg­ment rings,
Darkly at Thy side re­veal­èd
God shall bruise the god­less kings.
Thou shalt judge amongst the hea­then,
Thou shalt fill the world with dead;
Never shall Thy sword be sheath­en,
Till it smite the apos­tate’s head.

But Thy spell of end­less glo­ry
Is to suf­fer and to die;
Kedron with its bit­ter sto­ry,
And the vale of ag­ony.
Honor, bless­ing, vir­tue, mer­it
To the Fa­ther and the Son,
And the good and gra­cious Spir­it,
While eter­nal ag­es run.