1 No tramp of soldiers’ marching feet
With banners and with drums,
No sound of music’s martial beat:
“The King of glory comes!”
To greet what pomp of kingly pride
No bells in triumph ring,
No city gates swing open wide:
“Behold, behold your King!”

2 And yet He comes. The children cheer;
With palms His path is strown.
With ev'ry step the cross draws near:
The King of glory’s throne.
Astride a colt He passes by
As loud hosannas ring,
Or else the very stones would cry
“Behold, behold your King!”

3 What fading flow'rs His road adorn;
The palms, how soon laid down!
No bloom or leaf but only thorn
The King of glory’s crown.
The soldiers mock, the rabble cries,
The streets with tumult ring,
As Pilate to the mob replies,
“Behold, behold your King!”

4 Now he who bore for mortals’ sake
The cross and all its pains
And chose a servant’s form to take,
The King of glory reigns.
Hosanna to the Savior’s name
Till heaven’s rafters ring,
And all the ransomed host proclaim
“Behold, behold your King!”