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| Text: | I will not yield my sword |
| Translator: | John Brownlie |
I will not yield my sword,
I will not bow the knee,
But I would hear the blessed word
That calls my soul to Thee;
And through the din of war,
And in the midst of strife,
That word shall be the guiding star
To lead me on to life.
And in the midst of snares
Which subtle fingers lay,
I shall not stumble unawares
Upon the upward way;
But keep before my eyes
The goal before me set,
Lest I should miss the glorious prize
Which loyal victors get.
O Christ, Who art my King,
Thy cause I make mine own,
Till proud rebellious foes shall bring
Their homage to Thy throne;
Till then my heart revive
With courage brave and strong,
And steel my feeble arm to strive
Against the power of wrong.
When from the fateful field
I hail my rightful king,
To Him my trusty sword I'll yield,
And all my trophies bring;
109
And He shall crown my head
With honours richer far,
Than trophies from the conquered dead,
And all the spoils of war.
| Text Information | |
|---|---|
| First Line: | I will not yield my sword |
| Title: | I will not yield my sword |
| Translator: | John Brownlie |
| Meter: | 6,6,8,6 |
| Language: | English |
| Publication Date: | 1920 |
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