Let God, the God of Battle, Rise

lyricist: Tate and Brady, 1698
Composer: Joseph Klug, 1543

Let God

the God of bat­tle

rise

And scat­ter His pre­sump­tu­ous foes;

Let shame­ful rout their host sur­prise

Who spite­ful­ly His pow­er op­pose.

As smoke in tem­pest’s rage is lost

Or wax in­to the fur­nace cast;

So let the sac­ri­le­gious host

Before His wrath­ful pre­sence waste.

But let the serv­ants of His will

His fa­vor’s gen­tle beams en­joy;

Their up­right hearts let glad­ness fill

And cheer­ful songs their tongues em­ploy.

To Him your voice in an­thems raise;

Jehovah’s aw­ful name He bears:

In Him re­joice

ex­tol His praise

Who rides up­on high-roll­ing spheres.

He

from His em­pire of the skies

To this low world com­pas­sion draws

The or­phan’s claim to pa­tron­ize

And judge the in­jured wi­dow’s cause.

’Tis God who from a for­eign soil

Restores poor ex­iles to their home

Makes cap­tives free; and fruit­less toil

Their proud op­press­ors’ right­eous doom.

’Twas so of old

when Thou didst lead

In pe­rson

Lord

our ar­mies forth:

Strange ter­rors through the de­sert spread

Convulsions shook th’as­ton­ished earth.

The break­ing clouds did rain dis­till

And heav’n’s high arch­es shook with fear;

How then should Si­nai’s hum­ble hill

Of Is­rael’s God the pre­sence bear?

Thy hand

at fam­ished earth’s com­plaint

Relieved her from ce­les­ti­al stores;

And when Thy her­it­age was faint

Assuaged the drought with plen­te­ous show­ers.

Where sav­ag­es had ranged be­fore

At ease Thou mad’st our tribes re­side;

And

in the de­sert

for the poor

Thy gen­er­ous boun­ty did pro­vide.

When God His gra­cious word sent forth

To make His chos­en glad

Numbers from east

south

west

and north

The joy­ful tid­ings spread.

Great kings of arm­ies fled apace

And met a fa­tal soil;

While those that stayed at home

with ease

And plea­sure shared the spoil.

Though ye among the pots have lain

Like doves shall ye ap­pear

With sil­ver wings and gold di­vine

From dross and mix­ture clear.

When God the po­tent kings ex­pelled

From Ca­naan at His will

The white­ness of His robes ex­celled

The snow of Sal­mon’s hill.

The hill of God

His chos­en seat

On Zi­on’s mount is found:

Not Ba­shan’s hill can boast such state

Nor all the hills around.

Ye lof­ty hills

why leap ye so?

This is the hill of God:

Here He hath chose to dwell

and lo!

Here is His fixed abode.

His cha­ri­ots num­ber­less; His pow­ers

Are heav’n­ly hosts

that wait His will:

His pre­sence now fills Si­on’s tow­ers

As once it hon­ored Si­nai’s hill.

Ascending high

in tri­umph Thou

Captivity hast cap­tive led;

And on Thy peo­ple didst be­stow

The spoil of ar­mies

once their dread.

E’en re­bels shall par­take Thy grace

And hum­ble pro­se­lytes re­pair

To wor­ship at Thy dwell­ing place

And all the world pay hom­age there.

We bless the Lord

the just

the good

Who fills our hearts with heav’n­ly food;

Who pours His bless­ings from the skies

And loads our days with rich sup­plies.

He sends His sun His cir­cuit round

To cheer the fruits

to warm the ground;

He bids the clouds with plen­te­ous rain

Refresh the thirs­ty earth again.

Tis to His care we owe our breath

And all our near es­capes from death:

Safety and health to God be­long;

He heals the weak

and guards the strong

He makes the saint and sin­ner prove

The com­mon bless­ings of His love;

But the wide dif­fer­ence that re­mains

Is end­less joy

or end­less pains.

The Lord that bruised the ser­pent’s head

On all the ser­pent’s seed shall tread

The stub­born sinner’s hope con­found

And smite Him with a last­ing wound.

But His right hand His saints shall raise

From deep­est earth or deep­er seas

And bring them to His courts above;

There shall they taste His spe­cial love.

For be­ne­fits each day be­stowed

Be dai­ly His great name adored;

Who is our Sav­ior and our God

Of life and death the sov­er­eign Lord.

Who

mount­ed on the lof­ti­est sphere

Of an­cient Heav’n

sub­lime­ly rides;

From whence His dread­ful voice we hear

Like that of war­ring winds and tides.

Ascribe ye pow­er to God most high

Of hum­ble Is­ra­el He takes care;

Whose strength

from out the du­sky sky

Darts shin­ing ter­rors through the air.

How dread­ful are the sac­red courts

Where God has fixed His earth­ly throne!

His strength His fee­ble saints sup­ports

To God give praise

and Him alone.

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