Awake, ye warriors of the Lamb,
Who wear the cross upon your soul;
No silken bed, no fleeting fame,
No timid heart shall reach the goal.
The trumpet sounds, the standard flies,
The ancient foe in darkness schemes;
Yet Christ Himself before us lies—
The Conqueror of our broken dreams.

In armor bright with heaven’s fire,
The belt of truth about your waist,
The breastplate guards the heart’s desire,
The gospel shoes make footsteps haste.
Lift high the shield that quenches flame,
The helmet strong to guard the mind;
The Spirit’s sword, God’s living name,
Shall cleave the lies that truth would bind.

The Captain marches, scarred and crowned,
His hands still bear the nail’s cruel print;
Through storm and shadow, blood-bespattered ground,
He leads where cowards fear to sprint.
No chain of fear shall bind the brave,
No whisper of the serpent’s art;
Though worlds may mock and powers rave,
His voice alone commands the heart.

Be valiant, then, for truth this day,
When falsehood cloaks itself in light;
When error wears a saintly sway
And wolves in sheepskin prowl the night.
Stand firm where compromise would creep,
Where silence seems the easier road;
The cross demands, the watchmen keep—
Their charge is heavy, yet their load.

Though wounds may scar and trials press,
Though brethren fall and banners tear,
The King who died will yet confess
The faithful ones who tarry there.
A crown of life awaits the true,
Where every tear is wiped away;
He turns our broken dreams anew—
In victory Christ holds the day.

Then charge, ye soldiers of the King,
With voices joined in battle cry;
Let every tongue His praises sing,
Till darkened realms to daylight fly.
No fortress built by mortal hand
Shall stand against His sovereign might;
We march beneath His high command—
Till every knee bows at His sight!