To Thine al­migh­ty arm we owe
The tri­umphs of the day;
Thy ter­rors, Lord, con­found the foe,
And melt their strength away.

’Tis by Thine aid our troops pre­vail,
And break unit­ed pow­ers,
Or burn their boast­ed fleets, or scale
The proud­est of their tow­ers.

How we have chased them through the field,
And trod them to the ground,
While Thy sal­va­tion was our shield,
But they no shel­ter found!

In vain to id­ol saints they cry,
And per­ish in their blood;
When is a rock so great, so high
So pow­er­ful as our God?

The Rock of Is­ra­el ev­er lives,
His name be ev­er blest;
’Tis His own arm the vic­to­ry gives,
And gives His peo­ple rest.

On kings that reign as Da­vid did,
He pours His bless­ings down;
Secures their hon­ors to their seed,
And well sup­ports the crown.