Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherubs sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far,
When by the sick mans bed ye stood, O lions of the war!
When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness,
The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness-
Religion of the cross, thou blendst, as in a single flower,
The twofold branches of the palm-humility and power.