Not for passion or for power,
Clean of hands, and calm of soul,
England at this awful hour
Bids her battle-thunders roll,

That crown'd arrogance may quail
And brute-force be backward hurled --
Lest the hypocrite prevail,
Lest a lie should win the world;

Lest she see the trustful weak
Trampled by the perjured strong --
That her arm may help to wreak
Justice on red-handed wrong,

Till the hierophants of fear
Cease, beneath the darkened sun,
To boom out in Europe's ear
The grim gospel of the gun.

So, to meet yon myriad host
As we muster, land by land,
Witness Heaven -- no braggart boast --
That for righteousness we stand!

In the dread impending hour
Heedful of that warning word,
''Not by might, and not by power --
By my Spirit,' saith the Lord.'