O Lord of hosts, who didst up­raise
Strong cap­tains to defend the right,
In dark­er years and stern­er days,
And arm­èdst Is­ra­el for the fight;
Thou madest Jo­shua true and strong,
And Da­vid framed the bat­tle song.

And we must we bat­tle yet? Must we,
Who bear the ten­der name di­vine,
Still bar­ter life for vic­to­ry,
Still glo­ry in the crim­son sign?
The Cru­ci­fied be­tween us stands,
And lifts on high His wound­ed hands.

Lord, we are weak and will­ful yet,
The fault is in our cloud­ed eyes;
But Thou, through ang­uish and regret,
Dost make Thy faith­less child­ren wise;
Through wrong, through hate, Thou dost ap­prove
The far off vic­to­ries of love.

And so, from out the heart of strife,
Diviner ech­oes peal and thrill,
The scorned de­lights, the lav­ished life,
The pain that serves a na­tion’s will:
Thy com­fort stills the mourn­er’s cries,
And love is crowned by sac­ri­fice.

As rains that weep the clouds away,
As winds that leave a calm in Hea­ven,
So let the slay­er cease to slay;
The pass­ion healed, the wrath for­giv­en,
Draw near­er, bid the tu­mult cease,
Redeemer, Sav­ior, Prince of Peace!