Christ the Conquering King

Jehovah to my Lord thus spake

Till I Thy foes Thy foot­stool make

Sit Thou in state at My right hand;

God shall from Zi­on send abroad

O’er na­tions all Thy migh­ty rod;

Amid Thy foes Thy throne shall stand.

Thee

in Thy pow­er’s tri­umph­ant day

The will­ing na­tions shall ob­ey

And

when Thy ris­ing beams they view

Shall all

re­deemed from er­ror’s night

Appear as num­ber­less and bright

As crys­tal drops of morn­ing dew.

The Lord un­chang­ing oath has made

Melchizedek’s Thy priest­ly grade

In ev­er­last­ing priest­hood crowned;

The sov­er­eign Lord

at Thy right hand

Shall strike thro’ princ­es of the land

While aw­ful an­ger flames around.

Among the hea­then judge He will;

Unnumbered dead the land shall fill

The na­tions’ chief shall smit­ten lie;

The brook that run­neth in the way

His burn­ing thirst shall slake that day

And He shall lift His head on high.