We conquer in thy mortal fray;
And earth for all her children saith,
“O God, take not this cup away!”
3 O Lord of sorrow, meekly die;
Thou’lt heal or hallow all our woe;
Thy peace shall still the mourner’s sigh;
Thy strength shall raise the faint and low.
4 Great chief of faithful souls, arise;
None else can lead the martyr band,
Who teach the soul how peril flies,