THY strength, O Lord, makes glad our King,

THY strength, O Lord, makes glad our King, Who once in weakness bow'd the head, Salvation makes His heart to sing, For Thou hast raised Him from the dead.

Thou hast bestow'd His heart's desires, Shower'd on His path Thy blessings down; His royal pomp all heaven admires; Thou on His head hast set the crown.

A life eternal as Thy years, A glory infinite like Thine, Repays Him for His groans and tears, And fills His soul with joy divine.

O King, beloved of our souls, Thine own right hand shall find Thy foes; Swift o'er their necks Thy chariot rolls, And earth Thy dreadful vengeance knows.

As glowing oven is Thy wrath, As flame by furious blast upblown; With equal heat Thy love breaks forth, Like wall of fire around Thine own.

Be Thou exalted, King of kings, In Thine own strength sit Thou on high, Thy church Thy triumph loudly sings, And lauds Thy glorious majesty. Charles H. Spurgeon,