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O Lord of hosts, who didst upraise
strong captains to defend the right,
in darker years and sterner days,
and armedst Israel for the fight;
thou madest Joshua true and strong,
and David framed the battle-song.
And must we battle yet? Must we,
who bear the tender name divine,
still barter life for victory,
still glory in the crimson sign?
The Crucified between us stands,
and lifts on high his wounded hands.
Lord, we are weak and willful yet,
the fault is in our clouded eyes;
but thou, through anguish and regret,
dost make thy faithless children wise:
through wrong, through hate, thou dost approve
the far-off victories of love.
And so, from out the heart of strife,
diviner echoes peal and thrill;
the scorned delights, the lavished life,
the pain that serves a nation's will:
thy comfort still the mourner's cries,
and love is crowned by sacrifice.
As rains that weep the clouds away,
as winds that leave a calm in heaven,
so let the slayer cease to slay;
the passion healed, the wrath forgiven,
draw nearer, bid the tumult cease,
Redeemer, Savior, Prince of Peace!