Anon, arrayed in robes of grace He rides the trampled plain,
With pity beaming in His face, And mercy in His train.
Mighty to save He now appears, Mighty to raise the dead,
Mighty to stanch the bleeding wound, And lift the fallen head.

Victor alike in love and arms, Myriads around Him bend;
Each captive owns His matchless charms, Each foe becomes His friend.
They crown Him on the battle-field, They press to kiss His feet;
Their hands, their hearts, their all they yield: His conquest is complete.

None love Him more than those He slew; His love their hate has slain;
Henceforth their souls are all on fire To spread His gentle reign.