Scripture Verse

Through Thee will we push down our enemies: through Thy name will we tread them under that rise up against us. For I will not trust in my bow, neither shall my sword save me. But Thou hast saved us from our enemies, and hast put them to shame that hated us. In God we boast all the day long, and praise Thy name for ever. Psalm 44:5–8


Philip Doddridge (1702–1751)

Words: Phi­lip Dodd­ridge (1702–1751). Pub­lished post­hu­mous­ly in Hymns Found­ed on Va­ri­ous Texts in the Ho­ly Scrip­tures, by Job Or­ton (Shrop­shire, Eng­land: Jo­shua Ed­dowes & John Cot­ton, 1755), num­ber 366: A mi­li­ta­ry Ode.

Music: Ly­ons at­trib­ut­ed to Jo­hann M. Hay­dn (1737–1806). Ar­ranged by Will­iam Gar­di­ner, Sac­red Me­lo­dies (Lon­don: 1815) (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

Johann M. Haydn (1737–1806)


Probably com­posed by Da­vid, to be sung when his ar­my was march­ing out to war against the rem­nant of the de­vot­ed na­tions of Ca­naan, and first went up in so­lemn pro­ces­sion to the house of God at Je­ru­sa­lem, there, as it were, to con­se­crate the arms, which he put in­to their hands.

Philip Dodd­ridge


O praise ye the Lord, pre­pare a new song,
And let all His saints in full con­cert join;
Ye tribes all as­sem­ble, the feast to pro­long,
In so­lemn pro­cess­ion, with mu­sic di­vine.

O Is­ra­el, in Him that made thee, re­joice,
Let all Zi­on’s sons ex­ult in their king;
While to mar­tial danc­es you join a glad voice,
Your lutes, harps and tim­brels, in har­mo­ny bring.

The Lord in His saints still finds His de­light,
Salvation from Him the meek shall adorn;
They well may be joy­ful, sus­tained by His might,
And crowned by His fa­vor may lift up their horn.

Let car­pets be spread, and ban­quets pre­pared,
Those al­tars around, whence in­cense as­cends;
Whilst an­thems of glo­ry thro’ Sa­lem are heard,
And God, whom we wor­ship, in­dulgent at­tends.

Then as your hearts bound with mu­sic and wine,
Inspired by the God who reigns in the place,
Unsheath all your wea­pons, and bright let them shine,
And bran­dish your fal­chi­ons, while chant­ing His praise.

Then march to the field, the hea­then de­fy,
And scat­ter His wrath on na­tions around;
Like an­gels of ven­geance your swords lift on high,
And boast that Je­ho­vah com­miss­ions the wound.

Their ge­ner­als sub­dued, your tri­umphs shall grace,
And load­ed with chains, their kings shall be brought;
The necks shall ye tram­ple of Ca­naan’s proud race,
And all their last rem­nant for slaugh­ter be sought.

No rage of your own such ri­gor de­mands;
A sen­tence di­vine your arms must ful­fill;
Of old He this ven­geance con­signed to your hands,
And in sac­red vol­umes re­cord­ed His will.

This hon­or, ye saints, ap­point­ed for you,
All-grate­ful re­ceive, and faith­ful ob­ey,
And while this dread plea­sure re­sist­less ye do,
Still make His high prais­es the song of the day.