When persecution’s torrent blaze
Wraps the unshrinking martyr’s head,
When fade all earthly flowers and bays,
When summer friends are gone and fled,
Is he alone in that dark hour,
Who owns the Lord of love and power?
Or waves there not around his brow,
A wand no human arm may wield,
Fraught with a spell no angels know,
His steps to guide, his soul to shield?