The tri­umphs of the saints,
The toils they brave­ly bore,
The love that nev­er faints,
Their glo­ry ev­er­more—
For these the Church to­day
Pours forth her joy­ous lay;
What vic­tors wear so rich a bay?

This cling­ing world of ill
Them and their works ab­hor­red;
Its wi­ther­ing flow­ers still
They spurned with one ac­cord;
They knew them short lived all,
How soon they fade and fall,
And fol­lowed, Je­su, at Thy call.

What tongue may here de­clare,
Fancy or thought des­cry,
The joys Thou dost pre­pare
For these Thy saints on high?
Empurpled in the flood
Of their vic­tor­ious blood,
They won the laur­el from their God.

O Lord most high, we pray,
Stretch forth Thy migh­ty arm
To put our sins away
And shel­ter us from harm;
O give Thy serv­ants peace;
From guilt and pain re­lease;
Our praise to Thee shall nev­er cease.