For half a cent'ry hast thou kept the field,
And never didst thou to the foe yet yield;
Thine arms divine, the Spirit and the Word;
Truth, faith, and pray'r, these all in sweet accord.
Nor have thy wondrous vict'ries been conceal'd;
Some to thy Master's glory are reveal'd,
E'en now th' achievements of his flaming sword.
Be thou, my friend, yet faithful unto death;
Then, when the blood-stain'd heroes too must die,
And proudest despots yield their fleeting breath,