Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord; awake, as in the ancient days, in the generations of old. Art Thou not it that hath cut Rahab, and wounded the dragon? Isaiah 51:9
Arm of the Lord, awake, awake!
Thine own immortal strength put on!
With terror clothed, hell’s kingdom shake,
And cast Thy foes with fury down!
As in the ancient days appear!
The sacred annals speak Thy fame:
Be now omnipotently near,
Thro’ endless ages still the same.
Thy tenfold vengeance knew to quell,
And humble haughty Rahab’s pride,
Groaned her pale sons Thy stroke to feel,
The first-born victims groaned, and died.
The wounded dragon raged in vain,
While bold Thine utmost plague to brave,
Madly he dared the parted main,
And sunk beneath th’o’erwhelming wave.
He sunk; while Israel’s chosen race
Triumphant urge their wondrous way;
Divinely led, the favorites pass
Th’unwatery deep, and emptied sea.
At distance heaped on either hand,
Yielding a strange unbeaten road,
In crystal walls the waters stand,
And own the arm of Israel’s God.
That arm which is not shortened now,
Which wants not now the power to save;
Still present with Thy people Thou
Bear’st them thro life’s disparted wave.
By earth and hell pursued in vain,
To Thee the ransomed seed shall come,
Shouting their heavenly Sion gain,
And pass thro’ death triumphant home.
The pain of life shall there be o’er,
The anguish, and distracting care,
There sighing grief shall weep no more,
And sin shall never enter there.
Where pure essential joy is found,
The Lord’s redeemed their heads shall raise,
With everlasting gladness crowned,
And filled with love, and lost in praise.