He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded him an alter in the evening dews and damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dm and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.
I have read as fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
“As ye deal with my ontemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on”
He has ounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the Lillies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he dies to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
— Julia Ward Howe