Classic Poem

The Lord unto my Lord thus spake: —
Sit at My right Hand, till I make
A foot-stool of Thy foes.
He will Thy rod from Sion send,
Unto Whose pow'r all pow'rs shall bend,
That dare Thy rule oppose.

Thy people willingly shall pay
Their vows in that triumphant day,
With their united pow'rs,
Array'd in ephods; nor so few
As are those pearls of morning-dew,
Which hang on herbs and flow'rs.

He swore, Who never oath did break,
Of the order of Melchisedek
That Thou a priest should'st reign;
Ev'n while the sun dispers'd his light,
While moons shall rule th' alternate night,
Or stars their course maintain.

God, in that day at Thy right hand,
Their blood, who tyrant-like command,
Shall in His fury spill:
He in His justice shall confound
The heathen, and the purple ground
With heaps of slaughter fill.

Who over many nations sway,
And only their own wills obey,
Shall sink beneath His rage:
Then shall this all-subduing King,
With water of the crystal spring,
His burning thirst assuage.