In the tramp of ten thousands of armed men, in the strains of
that grand old battle-hymn of the Republic, I hear the march of
his soul:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
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.
Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c.

He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul! to answer Him; be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free!
While God is marching on.

When Lincoln's first Emancipation Decree (made necessary by the