O mighty God! our fathers told
The wondrous works thou didst of yore;
Thy glories in the days of old,
Wrought on proud Egypt's hostile shore.
Thy wrath swept through that guilty land;
Before thy face the heathen fled;
His people, with an outstretched hand,
The Lord of Hosts in triumph led!
It was not counsel, spear, nor sword,
A heritage for Israel won;
It was Jehovah's awful word
That led our conquering armies on.
The heathen host—their warriors brave—
Were scattered when the Lord arose;
At his terrific glance, a grave
Was found by Jacob's haughty foes!
God of our strength! Almighty Power!
Our sure defence, our sword and shield,
Still guide our hosts in danger's hour,
Still lead our armies to the field.
In thee we trust—what foe can stand
The awful brightness of thine eye?
Both life and death are in thy hand,
And in thy smile is victory!