Scripture Verse

Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing on the right hand of God. Acts 7:56


Walter C. Macfarren (1826–1905)

Words: Ad­am of St. Vic­tor, 12th Cen­tu­ry (He­ri mun­dus ex­ul­ta­vit). Trans­lat­ed from La­tin to Eng­lish by John M. Neale & the com­pil­ers of Hymns An­cient and Mo­dern. The lyr­ics speak of Ste­phen’s mar­tyr­dom.

Music: He­ri Mun­dus Ex­ul­ta­vit Wal­ter C. Mac­far­ren, in Hymns An­cient and Mo­dern, 1868 (🔊 pdf nwc).

If you know where to get a good pic­ture of Ad­am of St. Vic­tor (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),

John M. Neale (1818–1866)



Yesterday, with ex­ul­ta­tion,
Joined the world in ce­le­bra­tion,
Of her pro­mised Sav­ior’s birth;
Yesterday the an­gel na­tion
Poured the strains of ju­bi­la­tion
O’er the mon­arch born on earth.

But to­day o’er death vic­to­r­ious,
By his faith and act­ions glo­ri­ous,
By his mir­acles re­nowned,
See the dea­con tri­umph gain­ing,
’Midst the faith­less faith sus­tain­ing,
First of ho­ly mar­tyrs found.

Onward, cham­pi­on, fal­ter ne­ver,
Sure of sure re­ward for­ev­er,
Holy Ste­phen, per­se­vere;
Perjured wit­ness­es con­found­ing,
Satan’s sy­na­gogues as­tound­ing
By thy doc­trine true and clear.

Thine own wit­ness is in Hea­ven,
True and faith­ful, to thee given,
Witness of thy blame­less­ness;
By thy name a crown im­ply­ing,
Meet it is thou shouldst be dy­ing
For the crown of right­eous­ness.

For the crown that fad­eth n­ever
Bear the tor­tur­er’s brief en­dea­vor;
Victory waits to end the strife;
Death shall be thy life’s be­gin­ning,
And life’s los­ing be the wi­nning
Of the true and be­tter life.

Filled with God’s most Ho­ly Spi­rit,
See the Heav’n thou shalt inhe­rit,
Stephen, gaze in­to the skies;
There God’s glo­ry stead­fast view­ing,
Thence thy vic­tor strength re­new­ing,
Pant for thy eter­nal prize.

See, as Jew­ish foes in­vade thee,
See how Je­sus stands to aid thee,
Stands at God’s right hand on high:
Tell how op­ened Hea­ven is shown thee,
Tell how Je­sus waits to own thee,
Tell it with thy lat­est cry.

As the dy­ing mar­tyr kneel­eth,
For his mur­der­ers he a­ppeal­eth,
For their mad­ness griev­ing sore;
Then in Christ he sleep­eth sweet­ly,
And with Christ he reign­eth meet­ly,
Martyr first­fruits, ev­er­more.