Classic Poem

Our God 's a mighty panoply,
A tower that can't be shaken;
From every strait he 'll help us free,
That now hath us o'ertaken.
The old black Fiend hath risen
From out his ancient prison;
Great power, deep artifice,
His dreadful armor is;
On earth there 's not his equal.

By strength of ours is nothing done, —
A fearful game we 're losing;
But the right man 's our champion,
The man of God's own choosing.
Wouldst know who that may be?
Lord Jesus Christ is he,
The Lord of Hosts; — alone
Him for our God we own; —
He 'll take the field, and keep it.

And though the world were full of fiends,
All waiting to devour,
All their infernal magazines
Against us have no power.
The prince of this world may
Draw out his grim array;
He cannot make us yield.
Why? For his doom is sealed, —
A word shall bid him cower.

That word, despite them, still shall stand,
And they shall help fulfil it, —
No thanks to them; — praise Him whose hand
And counsel so did will it.
Let them take house, child, wife,
Good name, and body's life;
What then? small gain is theirs.
Good bye to earthly cares;
God's kingdom stands unshaken!