First Of Martyrs, Thou Whose Name
Doth Thy Golden Crown Proclaim,
Not Of Flowers That Fade Away
Weave We This Thy Crown To-Day.

Bright The Stones Which Bruise Thee Gleam,
Sprinkled With Thy Life-Blood’s Stream;
Stars Around Thy Sainted Head
Never Could Such Radiance Shed.

Every Wound Upon Thy Brow
Sparkles With Unearthly Glow;
Like An Angel’s Is Thy Face,
Beaming With Celestial Grace.

O How Blessed First To Be
Slain For Him Who Bled For Thee;
First Like Him In Dying Hour
Witness To Almighty Power;

First To Follow Where He Trod
Through The Deep Red Sea Of Blood;
First, But In Thy Footsteps Press
Saints And Martyrs Numberless.

Glory To The Father Be,
Glory, Virgin-Born, To Thee,
Glory To The Holy Ghost,
Praised By Men And Heavenly Host.

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