Song Of The Redeemed

John Pierpont

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We come! we come, that have been held
In burning chains so long,
We 're up! and on we come, a host
Full fifty thousand strong.
The chains we 've snapped that held us round
The wine-vat and the still;--
Snapped by a blow--nay, by a word,
That mighty word I WILL!

We come from Belial's palaces,
The tippling shop and bar;
And, as we march, those gates of hell
Feel their foundations jar.
The very ground, that oft has held
All night our throbbing head,
Knows that we're up--no more to fall,
And trembles at our tread.

From dirty den, from gutter foul,
From watch-house and from prison,
Where they, who gave the poisonous glass,
Had thrown us, have we risen;
From garret high have hurried down,
From cellar stived and damp
Come up;--till alley, lane and street
Echo our earthquake tramp.

And on--and on--a swelling host
Of temperance men we come,
Contemning and defying all
The powers and priests of rum:
A host redeemed, who 've drawn the sword,
And sharpened up its edge,
And hewn our way, through hostile ranks,
To the tee-total pledge.

To God be thanks, who pours us out
Cold water from his hills,
In crystal springs and babbling brooks,
In lakes and sparkling rills!
From these to quench our thirst we come,
With freeman's shout and song,
A host already numbering more
Than fifty thousand strong.

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