VICTORY.
O sing unto the Lord a new song; for he hath done marvellous things: his right hand, and his holy arm, hath gotten him the victory.—Psalm xcviii. 1.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.—I. Corinthians, xv. 55, 57.
This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith.—I. John, v. 4.
Ye dead! where can your dwelling be?
—The house of all the living;—come and see.
O life! what is thy breath?
—A vapour lost in death.
O death! how ends thy strife?
—In everlasting life.
O grave! where is thy victory?
—Ask Him who rose again from me.
J. Montgomery.
Look, ye saints, the sight is glorious,
See the “Man of Sorrows” now;
From the fight returned victorious,
Every knee to Him shall bow!
Crown Him! crown Him!
Crowns become the victor’s brow.
Sinners in derision crown’d Him,
Mocking thus the Saviour’s claim;
Saints and angels crowd around Him,
Own His title, praise His name:
Crown Him! crown Him!
Spread abroad the victor’s fame!
Kelly.
Millions now before the throne,
Lay their trophied offerings down;
Clad in robes of purity,
Now they sing of victory.
Millions more still onward go,
Militant while here below;
Soon the shield and sword shall be
Laid aside for victory.
W. J. Brock.
Beauty;—may that of holiness be mine;
May power be given me to o’ercome the world;
For pleasure, may I have a hand to pour
The oil and wine upon another’s wound!
For honour, may I bear my Saviour’s cross;
For splendour, light that from His follower beams;
And be my glory His approving smile;
My fame, the world’s reproaches for His sake;
My wealth, a conscience where no rust corrodes—
One that may look into a coming world,
As nature shall dissolve, and feel secure;
With these to aid me in the mortal strife,
May I, the palm of victory o’er the grave,
Make my immortal prize!
Hannah F. Gould.
Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory;
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour’s sword,
Wave not so high the victor’s plume;
They point me to the bosom gor’d,
They point me to the blood-stained tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain;
What are they but the fickle crowd,
Rejoicing o’er their brethren slain?
And oh, through glory’s fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail.
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done;
Where the wild mother clasps her hands,
And asks the victor for her son.
Where, midst that desolated land,
The sire lamenting o’er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow,
And flourish in a soil like this.
Sigourney.
Up to the strife with care,
Be thine an oaken heart,
Life’s daily contest nobly share,
Nor act a craven part;
Give murmurs to the coward throng,
Be thine the joyous notes of song.
If thrown upon the field,
Up to the task once more,
’T is worse than infamy to yield,
’T is childish to deplore;
Look stern misfortune in the eye,
And breast the billow manfully.
Close in with every foe,
As thickly on they come,
They can but lay thy body low,
And send thy spirit home;
Yet may’st thou stand it out and view
What giant energy can do.
Soon shall the combat cease,
The struggle fierce and long,
And thine be true, unbroken peace,
And thine the victor’s song;
Beyond the clouds will wait for thee.
The wreath of immortality.
(Rev.) E. C. Jones.
Who shall wear the victor’s wreath
In the realms of deathless glory?
Those who reaped the fields of death,
Heroes of an earthly story?
Nay not these, nor such as these,
They have won rewards and prizes,
Shadowy unrealities,
Which the humble saint despises.
He the victor’s wreath shall wear,
Meekly who the cross could bear.
Egone.