Who is this with gar­ments go­ry,
Triumphing from Boz­rah’s way;
This that wear­eth robes of glo­ry,
Bright with more than vic­to­ry’s ray?
Who is this un­wea­ried com­er
From his jour­ney’s sul­try length,
Traveling through Idu­mè’s sum­mer
In the great­ness of His strength?

Wherefore red in Thine ap­pa­rel
Like the con­quer­ors of the earth,
And ar­rayed like those who car­ol
O’er the reek­ing vine­yard’s mirth?
Who art Thou, the val­leys seek­ing
Where our peace­ful har­vests wave?
I, in right­eous an­ger speak­ing,
I, the migh­ty One to save.

I, that of the rag­ing hea­then
Trod the wine­press all alone,
Now in vic­tor gar­lands wreath­en
Coming to re­deem Mine own:
I am He with sprin­kled rai­ment,
Glorious for My ven­geance hour,
Ransoming, with price­less pay­ment,
And de­li­ver­ing with pow­er.

Hail! All hail! Thou Lord of Glo­ry!
Thee, our Fa­ther, Thee we own;
Abraham heard not of our sto­ry,
Israel ne’er our name hath known.
But, Re­deem­er, Thou hast sought us,
Thou hast heard Thy child­ren’s wail,
Thou with Thy dear blood hast bought us:
Hail! Thou migh­ty vic­tor, hail!