No com­mon vi­sion this I see
In more than hu­man ma­jes­ty,
Who is this migh­ty he­ro, who,
With glo­ri­ous ter­ror on His brow?

His deep dyed crim­son robes out­vie
The blush­es of the morn­ing sky;
Lo! how tri­um­phant He app­ears
And vic­to­ry in His vis­age wears!

How strong, how stat­ely does He go!
Pompous and so­lemn is His pace,
And full of ma­jes­ty His face,
Who is this migh­ty hero, who?

’Tis I, who to My pro­mise stand:
I, who sin, death, hell, and the grave
Have foiled with this all con­quer­ing hand:
’Tis I, the Lord, migh­ty to save.

Why wear’st Thou then this crim­son dye;
Say Thou, all con­quer­ing he­ro, why?
Why do Thy gar­ments look all red
Like them that in the wine vat tread?

“The wine press I alone have trod,
That pon­der­ous mass I plied alone:
And with me to as­sist was none:
A task wor­thy the Son of God!

“Angels stood trem­bling at the sight,
Enraged I put forth all My might,
And down the en­gine pressed; the force
Put fright­ed na­ture out of course.

“The blood gushed out, and check­ered o’er
My gar­ments with its deep­est gore.
With glo­ri­ous stains be­decked I stood,
And writ My vic­to­ry in blood.

“The day, the sig­nal day is come
Vengeance on all My foes to take;
The day, when death shall have its doom,
And the dark king­dom’s pow­ers shall shake.

“I looked, who to as­sist stood by:
Trembled Heav’n’s hosts, nor ven­tured nigh:
E’en to My Fa­ther did I look
In pain: My Fa­ther Me for­sook.

“A while am­azed I was to see
None to up­hold or com­fort Me:
Then I arose in might ar­rayed,
And called My fu­ry to My aid.

My sin­gle arm the bat­tle won,
And strait th’ ac­claim­ing Hosts above
Hymned, in new songs of joy and love,
Jehovah and His con­quer­ing Son.