See the old dra­gon from his throne
Sink with enor­mous ru­in down!
Banished from Heav’n, and doomed to dwell
Deep in the fie­ry gloom of hell!

Ye heav’ns with all your hosts, re­joice:
Ye saints, in con­sort lend your voice;
Approach your Lord’s vic­to­ri­ous seat,
And tread the foe be­neath your feet.

But whence a con­quest so di­vine
Gained by such fee­ble hands as mine?
Or whence can sin­ful mor­tals boast
O’er Sa­tan and his re­bel host?

’Twas from Thy blood, Thou slaugh­tered lamb,
That all our palms and tri­umphs came;
Thy cross, thy spear in­flicts the stroke,
By which the mon­ster’s head is broke.

Thy faith­ful Word our hope main­tains
Through all our com­bat and our pains;
The ac­cents of Thy heav’n­ly breath
Thy sol­diers bear through wounds and death.

Triumphant Lamb, in worlds un­known,
With trans­port round Thy ra­di­ant throne,
Thy hap­py le­gions, all com­plete,
Shall lay their laur­els at Thy feet.