Who are these, who palms are clasping,
Like a conqueror, in their hand,
When he sees his foeman gasping,
Stretched before him in the sand?
What the combat, who the foes,
Whence this joyful triumph rose?
Who are these, of dazzling brightness,
These in God’s own truth arrayed,
Clad in robes of purest whiteness,
Robes whose lustre ne’er shall fade,