O Zion, with glad shouts around,
Meet thy approaching King!
Lo! with his righteousness renown'd,
Salvation comes on wing.

Behold his march, in lowly mode,
Bids earthly grandeur pass;
Despising pomp, the humble God
Comes riding on an ass!

He'll rule the heathen, not by dread,
But shall by preaching peace,
From sea to sea his empire spread,
And make rebellion cease.

Lo! by thy cov'nant-sealing blood
I'll set thy prisoners free
From out the pit, where nothing good,
Nor water sweet can be.

Turn, O ye prisoners of hope,
To Christ the strongest hold:
To-day I'll you insure a crop
Of comfort doubly told.