Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity

The sound of war? In earth and air
The volleying thunders roll:
Their fiery darts the fiends prepare,
And dig the pit and spread the snare
Against the Christian's soul.

The tyrant's sword, the rack, the flame,
The scorner's serpent tone,
Of bitter doubt the barbed aim,
All, all conspire his heart to tame:
Force, fraud, and hellish fires assail
The rivets of his heavenly mail,
Amidst his foes alone.

Gods of the world! ye warrior host
Of darkness and of air!
In vain is all your impious boast,
In vain each missile lightning tost,
In vain the tempter's snare!

Though fast and far your arrows fly,
Though mortal nerve and bone
Shrink in convulsive agony,
The Christian can your rage defy:
Towers o'er his head Salvation's crest,
Faith like a buckler guards his breast,—
Undaunted, though alone.

'T is past! 't is o'er! in foul defeat
The demon hosts are fled!
Before the Saviour's mercy-seat
(His livelong work of faith complete)
Their conqueror bends his head.

"The spoils Thyself hast gained, Lord,
I lay before Thy throne:
Thou wert my Rock, my Shield, my Sword;
My trust was in Thy name and Word;
'T was in Thy strength my heart was strong
Thy Spirit went with mine along;
How was I, then, alone?"