Classic Poem

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

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

Thy mighty arm, unseen, was nigh,
When we our foes assail'd;
Thou, Lord! hast rais'd our honors high,
And o'er their hosts prevail'd.

Their mounds, their camps, their lofty tow'rs
Into our hands are giv'n,
Not from desert or strength of ours,
But through the grace of heav'n.

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