Behold, the King of Zion rides,
But not in vain array;
The people wave their goodly palms,
With garments strew the way;
And loud hosannas fill the air
From crowds that, surging, throng;
’Tis meet to honour Him Who rides
With cheer, and shout, and song.
O Zion, of your God beloved,
The day of strife is nigh,
Yet comes He not with armour clad,
And sword upon His thigh;
The weapons of your mighty King
No other hand could wield,
The might of God is in His arm,
The will of God His shield.
See, on the cross, without the wall,
The King Immortal dies;
Not now hosannas fill the air,—
The shouts of hell arise;
But in that hour of triumph, deemed,
Satanic might is slain,
For He Who bows the head in death,
Shall rise to life again.
O Zion, hail your mighty King,
Your palms around Him wave,
And strew your garments in the way
Of Him Who rides to save;
And when He mounts His regal throne,
By bloody conflict won,
Give homage to the King of heaven,
God’s One Eternal Son.