1 |I lift my banners,| saith the Lord,
|Where Antichrist has stood,
|The city of my gospel-foes
|Shall be a field of blood.
2 |My heart has study'd just revenge,
|And now the day appears,
|The day of my redeem'd is come
|To wipe away their tears.
3 |Quite weary is my patience grown,
|And bids my fury go
|Swift as the lightning it shall move,
|And be as fatal too.
4 |I call for helpers but in vain:
|Then has my gospel none?
|Well, mine own arm has might enough
|To crush my foes alone.
5 |Slaughter and my devouring sword
|Shall walk the streets around,
|Babel shall reel beneath my stroke,
|And stagger to the ground.|
6 Thy honours, O victorious King!
Thine own right-hand shall raise,
While we thy awful vengeance sing,
And our deliverer praise.