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 lacks 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.