The Army of the Lord (Crosby)

Behold the ar­my of the Lord

How bright its host ap­pears;

Its ranks are mar­shalled

ev­ery one

And filled with vol­un­teers.

There is no place for cow­ard hearts

Who from their col­ors fly;

The Gos­pel calls for loy­al ones

Who do not fear to die.

The trump of war is sound­ing now

Its sig­nal well we know;

It bids the sol­diers of the cross

Take arms against the foe.

The bat­tle storm may do its worst

Our ar­dor still shall rise;

We’ll nev­er lay our ar­mor down

Till faith pre­sents the prize.

And when by grace our vic­t’ry won

Like stars in Heav’n we shine;

We’ll shout and sing thro’ end­less years

The praise

O Lord

be Thine.