Though he of Gath no more
The living God defy,
Champions like him of yore
Satan can now supply.

The champions he can call,
Though hid from mortal sight,
Are deadlier in their thrall
Than that fierce giant's might.

They rise not in the field
Of war with warlike mien;
But in the heart conceal'd,
They fight for him unseen.

Lust, with its wanton eye,
False shame, and servile fear;
Despair, whose icy sigh
Would freeze contrition's tear; —

Doubt, with its scornful jest;
Pride, with its haughty brow; —
These, lurking in the breast,
Are Satan's champions now.

Vainly our strength we boast
Or reason's triumphs tell,
Sin's hydra-headed host
Arms not our own must quell.

Be ours, then, those alone
God's word and grace bestow;
Faith's simple sling and stone
Shall lay each giant low.