I will not yield my sword,

I will not bow the knee,

But I would hear the blessed word

That calls my soul to Thee;

And through the din of war,

And in the midst of strife,

That word shall be the guiding star

To lead me on to life.

And in the midst of snares

Which subtle fingers lay,

I shall not stumble unawares

Upon the upward way;

But keep before my eyes

The goal before me set,

Lest I should miss the glorious prize

Which loyal victors get.

O Christ, Who art my King,

Thy cause I make mine own,

Till proud rebellious foes shall bring

Their homage to Thy throne;

Till then my heart revive

With courage brave and strong,

And steel my feeble arm to strive

Against the power of wrong.

When from the fateful field

I hail my rightful king,

To Him my trusty sword I'll yield,

And all my trophies bring;

And He shall crown my head

With honours richer far,

Than trophies from the conquered dead,

And all the spoils of war.