Lord, let the strain arise
For Britain's martyr blest;
He passes through the crimson tide
To Jesus, and to rest.
Brave King, with meekness dight
And Cross so gladly borne,
This day the shadows of the night
Melt into golden morn.
Hard was the cruel strife,
Long was the weary way,
And now, by death, thou findest life
And everlasting day.
No more the rebels jeer;
No more the tyrants chain;
Angelic welcomes, ringing clear,
Greet thee with loud acclaim.
See how the martyr's crown
Glitters on Charles's brow;
No rebel host can trample down
Thy ruby diadem now.
O Charles, our Royal Saint,
Pray for dear Britain's weal;
Our Fatherland and Church are faint;
Lo! there is none to heal.
A century before
Great Charles was called to die,
A sinful king laid waste the Church-
Angered our God on high.
The fire of Heaven's wrath
Waxed hotly more and more;
Until thy Royal blood, O Saint,
Cancelled the sin of yore.
And now before our God,
In joyous grief we bend,
And pray that England's Throne and Church
He ever will defend.
Jesus, be praise to thee,
Who reignest in the sky,
To Father and to Holy Ghost
Be praise eternally. Amen.
Regicide: 30 January 1649
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Royal Charles, who chose to die
