Ode Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

I.
God is our strength and song,
The Rock of our salvation:
His courts of prayer, ye people, throng,
And anthems to His name prolong:
Strew ye the path with spring-tide's earliest flowers;
And sing, O happy nation,
Hosanna to our fathers' God and ours,
Who heard our supplication.

II.
At noon the sun was darken'd;
All faces gather'd gloom:
A stricken land the tidings hearken'd,
While spectral terrors in the twilight loom,
And point their boding fingers to the tomb.
All merriment was quench'd;
The bravest warrior blench'd;
Childhood look'd up in fear;
The bridegroom and the bride,
The merry-hearted sigh'd:
Pale sorrow shed the brimming tear,
That in the fount of sympathy was near,
And blended her low moan
For anguish like her own:
And old men, not for age but dread,
Spake with white trembling lips, and shook their reverent head.

III.
Oh, look and weep! oh, listen to the sobs
With which that home of sometime gladness throbs!
In pity o'er that royal pillow bend,
For there, beneath your eyes,
Son, husband, father, brother, prince and friend
At death's cold threshold lies.
Weep for his widow'd mother,
Weep for his tender wife,
For sister and for brother,
For children's darken'd life.
But wherefore ask for streaming eyes of pity,
When England's heart is bleeding every pore,
In lonely wild, and crowded city,
From shore to shore?

IV.
Hark, 'tis the voice of prayer!
It rises on the stormy breeze;
It swells across the wintry seas;
Its pulses shake the midnight air:
From loftiest domes,
From lowliest homes,
'Tis here; 'tis there;
'Tis everywhere:
Behold a nation on its knees:
Faith wrestles with despair.

V.
Far, far above,
In the serene of life and love,
Where never cloud its faintest shadow throws,
Nor tempest mars the infinite repose,—
Far, far beyond the everlasting chimes
Of the melodious spheres,—
That mighty intercession climbs;
And passing through the golden gate
Breathed from the lips of our One Advocate
Enters Jehovah's ears.
Amen: the prayer is heard—
Glory, O Lord, to Thee!
The uncreated Word,
Despite the power of hell and death,
Calmly responsive saith,
Let it be.

VI.
Alleluia! there is joy in highest heaven:
Alleluia! love has triumphed: life is given.
And the echo of the harpers' song,
Harping with their harps beside the crystal sea,
Rolls in waves of deepening joy along;
Till the music, flowing on triumphantly,
By angelic benedictions fann'd,
Wakes the listening land.
Alleluia! let the happy people
Catch the heavenly strain:
Alleluia! let the bells from tower and steeple
Ring their changes of delight,
Morn to noon, and noon to night,
Again, again:
And the choral chant,
Grandly jubilant,
Swell the Alleluia's glad refrain.
Alleluia! from her widow'd throne,
From a broken healèd heart,
List! the Royal Mother's voice, at first alone,
Takes its foremost part:
Other voices mingling veil its sadness,
Other voices mingling raise its grief to gladness,
Children thanking God for him above,
Children thanking God for her on earth,
Children's children nestling in her love,
And her people tender in their mirth.
Alleluia! now the Prince, the Nation's Heir,
Snatch'd from death by England's wrestling prayer,
Passing through glad shouts and welcome peals
Echoing south, east, west, and north,
As within the temple courts he kneels,
Vows an Alleluia life henceforth.

VII.
No voice is mute to-day (such heaven's command),
One hymn of praise goes up from England's soul:
And with the sun from land to land,
And circling hours from pole to pole,
The joyful anthems roll:
One Alleluia loud and long;
The gladness of a nation;
Glory to God, our strength and song,
The Rock of our salvation!