II.

Oh Sion! lift thy head, thy King
Rides on in triumph to thy gate;
Lift up thy voice, Hosannas sing,
He cometh on in low estate.

Oh! listen, as the shouts arise
From that meek band of little ones,
Until they pierce the gladdened skies,
And happiness o'er all things runs.

Hosanna in the highest! they
Repeat with glowing heart and voice;
Who then can now refuse to say
'In Sion's gentle King rejoice?'

Oh! blessed Saviour, give me grace
To cast away the works of night,
To run with eagerness my race,
And with unflinching faith to fight.

That, when Thou shalt from heaven descend
To judge the quick and dead, my song
May with the hymns of angels blend,
And of the meek redeemed throng.