Abroad the regal banners fly,
Now shines the Cross's mystery;
Upon it Life did death endure,
And yet by death did life procure.
Who, wounded with a direful spear,
Did, purposely to wash us clear
From stain of sin, pour out a flood
Of precious water mixed with blood.
That which the prophet-king of old
Hath in mysterious verse foretold,
Is now accomplished, whilst we see
God ruling nations from a tree.
O lovely and refulgent Tree,
Adorned with purple majesty;
Culled from a worthy stock to bear
Those limbs which sanctified were.
Blest Tree, whose happy branches bore
The wealth that did the world restore;
The beam that did that body weigh
Which raised up hell's expected prey.
Hail Cross, our hope; on thee we call,
Who keep this mournful festival;
Grant to the just increase of grace,
And ever sinner's crimes efface.
Blest Trinity, we praises sing
To thee, from whom all graces spring;
Celestial crowns of those bestow
Who conquer by the Cross below.