1 For forty mystic days,
Unknown to man their length,
Thy foe, the foe of God with man,
Exerted all his strength.

2 No finite mind can tell,
The conflicts of those hours:
Nor ought but infinite conceive
Of Satan's wily pow'rs.

3 Was it to wreathe thy brow
With vict'ry's bright'ning wreath?
To give thyself a royal crown
That thus thou fought'st with death?

4 No—surely no—For man
The combat was begun—
For man 'twas finish'd—'tis complete—
for man the battle's won.

5 Eternal praise await,
Thy glorious, blessed name;
Thou Captain of Salvation's hosts,
All suff'ring, conqu'ring Lamb.