No fleeting cheers from man’s frail lips they crave,
Whose praise, a whim, dissolves in scornful air,
They march as kings through time’s unyielding wave,
Their souls ablaze with valor none can share.
The crowd’s acclaim, a brittle, broken reed,
Falls mute before their unrelenting stride,
Yet heaven thunders, hailing every deed,
A chorus vast where conquerors abide.
Through shadows cast by earth’s unseeing throng,
They wield a power mortal eyes deny,
Till golden gates resound with victory’s song,
And stars themselves their glorious names cry.
Let man’s weak shouts in fickle dust be hurled—
They reign supreme, the heroes of God’s world.