Soldier's Patron

O Prince of Hosts, with wings as purest snow,
Thy trumpet soundeth, waking souls from sleep.
In battle fierce, thou lay'st the devil low,
And from his grasp dost all thy servants keep.


In fields of glory, where the saints abide,
Thou art the champion of the just and true.
With fiery blade, thou scatter'st sin's dark tide,
And guide the faithful to the heavens blue.

Thine is the strength that falters not nor fades,
Thy voice a clarion in the darkest hour.
Thy name be praised where'er the light invades,
For in thy service lies our soul's own power.

O Michael blest, archangel of the Lord,
Defend us still, 'gainst all infernal wiles.
Thine is the victory, thine the swiftest sword,
That cleaves the shadow with thy holy smiles.

So shall we sing thy glory, evermore,
And call upon thy name in fervent prayer.
O Michael, lead us to the shining shore,
Where peace doth reign, and God's own light is fair.