Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath
are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling
camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and
damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring
lamps.
His Day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
‘As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace
shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his
heel,
As God is marching on.’
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment
seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
Glory, glory Hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
Composition Date:1861
Willard’s Hotel, Washington, D.C., the dawn of Nov. 19, 1861.The lyrical form of this poem is aaab.
1.Adopted informally as the song of the Union army in the American
civil war, and sung to the tune of “John Brown’s Body.”
Nov., 1861
Howe describes her composition of this hymn in her
Reminiscences (pp. 273-75) as follows:
I distinctly remember that a feeling of discouragement came over me as
I drew near the city of Washington …. I thought of the women of my
acquaintance whose sons or husbands were fighting our great battle ;
the women themselves serving in the hospitals, or busying themselves
with the work of the Sanitary Commission. My husband … was beyond
the age of military service, my eldest son but a stripling ; my youngest
was a child of not more than two years. I could not leave my nursery
to follow the march of our armies, neither had I the practical
deftness which the preparing and packing of sanitary stores demanded.
Something seemed to say to me, `You would be glad to serve, but you
cannot help any one ; you have nothing to give, and there is nothing
for you to do.’ Yet, because of my sincere desire, a word was given
me to say, which did strengthen the hearts of those who fought in the
field and of those who languished in the prison.
We were invited, one day, to attend a review of troops at some distance
from the town. While we were engaged in watching the man° ;uvres,
a sudden movement of the enemy necessitated immediate action. The review
was discontinued, and we saw a detachment of soldiers gallop to the
assistance of a small body of our men who were in imminent danger of
being surrounded and cut off from retreat. The regiments remaining
on the field were ordered to march to their cantonments. We returned
to the city very slowly, of necessity, for the troops nearly filled
the road. My dear minister was in the carriage with me, as were several
other friends. To beguile the rather tedious drive, we sang from time to
time snatches of the army songs so popular at that time, concluding,
I think, with
`John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the ground ;
His soul is marching on.’
The soldiers seemed to like this, and answered back, “Good for you!”
Mr. Clarke said, `Mrs. Howe, why do you not write some good words for
that stirring tune?’ I replied that I had often wished to do this,
but had not as yet found in my mind any leading toward it.
I went to bed that night as usual, and slept, according to my wont,
quite soundly. I awoke in the gray of the morning twilight ; and as I lay
waiting for the dawn, the long lines of the desired poem began to twine
themselves in my mind. Having thought out all the stanzas, I said to
myself, `I must get up and write these verses down, lest I fall asleep
again and forget them.’ So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed,
and found in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered to
have used the day before. I scrawled the verses almost without looking
at the paper. I had learned to do this when, on previous occasions,attacks of versification had visited me in the night, and I feared to have
recourse to a light lest I should wake the baby, who slept near me.
I was always obliged to decipher my scrawl before another night should
intervene, as it was only legible while the matter was fresh in my
mind. At this time, having completed the writing, I returned to bed
and fell asleep, saying to myself, `I like this better than most
things that I have written.'”
2 First Manuscript Version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
He is trampling out the wine press, where the grapes of wrath are stored,
He hath loosed the fateful lightning’s of his terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch fires of an hundred circling camps
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.
I have read a burning Gospel writ in fiery rows of steel,
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
Let the hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Our God is marching on.
He has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
He has waked the earth’s dull sorrow with a high ecstatic beat,
Oh! be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet
Our God is marching on.
In the whiteness of the lilies he was born across the sea
With a glory in his bosom that shines out on you and me,
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
Our God is marching on.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave
He is wisdom to the mighty, he is succour to the brave
So the world shall be his footstool, and the soul of Time his slave
Our God is marching on. © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
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