Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle,
Sing the last, the dread affray;
O’er the Cross, the Victor’s trophy
Sound the high triumphant lay:
How, the pains of death enduring,
Earth’s Redeemer won the day.
He, our Maker, deeply grieving
That the first-made Adam fell,
When he ate the fruit forbidden
Whose reward was death and hell,
Marked e’en then this Tree the ruin
Of the first tree to dispel.
Thus the work of our salvation
Was of old in order laid.
That the manifold deceiver’s
Art by art might be outweighed.
And the lure the foe put forward
Into means of healing made.
Therefore, when at length the fullness,
Of the appointed time was come,
He was sent, the world’s Creator,
From the Father’s heavenly home;
And was found in human fashion,
Offspring of the Virgin’s womb.
Lo! He lies an Infant weeping,
Where the narrow manger stands,
While the Mother-Maid his members
Wraps in mean and lowly bands,
And the swaddling clothes is winding
Round his helpless feet and hands.
To the Trinity be glory
Everlasting, as is meet:
Equal to the Father, equal
To the Son, and Paraclete:
God the Three in One, whose praises
All created things repeat.
