Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the
Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the
grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his
terrible swift sword:
His Truth is
marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a
hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the
evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the
dim and flaring lamps.
His Day is marching
on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in
burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace
shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with
his heel,
Since God is marching
on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never
call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his
judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my
feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across
the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and
me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men
free,
While God is marching on.
