To Thee and to Thy Christ, O God,
We sing, we ever sing;
For He the lonely wine-press trod,
Our cup of joy to bring.
His glorious arm the strife maintained,
He marched in might from far;
His robes were with the vintage stained,
Red with the wine of war.
O where is He that trod the sea,
O where is He that spake,
And demons from their victims flee,
The dead their slumbers break;
The palsied rise in freedom strong,
The dumb men talk and sing,
And from blind eyes, benighted long
Bright beams of morning spring?