1 To thee, who reign'st supreme above,
And reign'st supreme below,
Thou God of wisdom, power, and love,
We our successes owe.

2 The thundering horse, the martial band
Without thine aid were vain;
And vict'ry flies at thy command
To crown the bright campaign.

3 Thy mighty arm, unseen, was nigh,
When we our foes assail'd;
'Tis thou hast rais'd our honours high
And o'er their hosts prevail'd.

4 Their mounds, their camps, their lofty towers
Into our hands are giv'n,
Not from desert or strength of ours,
But thro' the graceof heav'n.

5 The Lord of hosts, our helper lives;
His name be ever blest;
'Tis his own arm the vict'ry gives;
He grants his people rest.