TRUMPET T UNE

Lift up your heads, ye gates,
Your golden hinges move;
The King of glory waits —
Admit the God of love!
Your everlasting arches raise,
And, as he enters, shout his praise,

Who is this glorious King,
Who at the portal stands?
What title does he bring,
That he access demands?
Jehovah's name, in battle strong,
Demands access, inspires the song.

Lift up your heads, ye gates;
Ye heav'ns, expand your doors;
The King of glory waits
To spread your golden floors
With spoils thro' death and darkness borne
With trophies from destruction torn.

Who is this glorious King?
The Lord that built the skies:
His praise the seraphs sing,
The holy, just, and wise:
Creation rose at his command,
Redemption owns his sov'reign hand.

The pow'rs of hell oppos'd,
While he in conflict bled;
And death's strong bars were clos'd
Round his expiring head:
But death and hell possest no pow'r
To hold him past th' appointed hour.

The hour appointed came,
The God put off the clay;
And, like a rapid flame,
Burst through them all his way:
A way so wide, so unconfin'd,
That all his church might march behind.

Lift your immortal heads,
Your Lord's from conquest come;
On death and sin he treads;
Let heav'n prepare him room:
A sheaf of glory's harvest-ears
The Victor in his chariot bears!