That eyes would see the dear design
unfolded in this gospel flag
which freely flies with fervent line
of crimson, stretching from the black
across its field, to fly-end white
to make the hands of men to wave,
for such a banner tells the height
of love Jehovah Nissi gave.
When hoisted up the blackened staff
the king paid out that blood-red line
and heaven’s royal flags flew half;
the Son was slain for wrath divine.
And now his hem of white we own,
which moves in gentle winds unseen
The gospel flag is always flown
for Christ our standard makes us clean.
The road rose up to meet…
(Is that a blessing at all?)
Well, on the mountain, our feet
did up from heaven haul.
The syrupy hills kept turning,
the tar did backwards tug
but, hearts and lungs burning,
we onward, upward dug.
Breathlessly we lamented
’til, after a lengthy while,
the harrying road relented
for a single treacherous mile.
Then up it loomed again!
And hot the sun did shine.
Our minds and legs did strain
to picture the finish line.
Spurred on, we did ascend,
the mountain lost its fire,
we fought it to the end
and won the runner’s desire.
And now with slopes behind
knowing they did not smother
our hopes, we are inclined
to sign up for another.