Behold, the King of Zion rides,
But not in vain array;
The people wave their goodly palms,
With garments strew the way;
And loud hosannas fill the air
From crowds that, surging, throng;
’Tis meet to honor Him who rides
With cheer, and shout, and song.

O Zion, of your God beloved,
The day of strife is nigh,
Yet comes He not with armor clad,
And sword upon His thigh;
The weapons of your mighty king
No other hand could wield;
The might of God is in His arm,
The will of God His shield.

See, on the cross, without the wall,
The King immortal dies;
Not now hosannas fill the air—
The shouts of hell arise;
But in that hour of triumph, deemed,
Satanic might is slain,
For He who bows the head in death,
Shall rise to life again.

O Zion, hail your mighty king,
Your palms around Him wave,
And strew your garments in the way
Of Him who rides to save;
And when He mounts His regal throne,
By bloody conflict won,
Give homage to the King of Heav­en,
God’s one eternal Son.