Who’s this we see from Ed­om come,
With bloody robes from Bos­rah town?
He whom false Jews to death did doom,
And Heav’n’s fierce an­ger had cast down.

His right­eous soul alone was fain
The wine press of God’s wrath to tread,
And all His gar­ments to dis­tain,
And sprink­led clothes to die blood red.

’Gainst hell and death He stou­tly fought,
Who cap­tive held Him down three days:
But straight He His own free­dom wrought,
And from the dead Him­self did raise.

The bra­zen gates of death he brake,
In tri­umph over sin and hell,
And made in­fer­nal king­doms quake,
With all that in those shades do dwell.

His mur­dered bo­dy He re­sumed
Despite the grave’s close grasp and strife,
And all these re­gions thence per­fumed
With sweet­est hope of e’er­last­ing life.

O migh­ty Son of God most high,
Who con­quered thus hell, death and sin,
Give us a glo­ri­ous vic­to­ry
Over our dead­ly sins to win.

Go on, and Ed­om still sub­due,
And quite cut off his wick­ed race;
And raise in us Thine im­age true,
Which sin­ful Edom doth de­face.

Teach us our lusts to mor­ti­fy
In vir­tue of Thy pre­cious death:
That while to sin all dead we lie,
Thou may in­fuse Thy heav’n­ly breath.

To right­eous­ness our spir­its raise,
And quick­en us with life and love;
That we may walk here to Thy praise,
And af­ter live in Heav’n above.

Grant we in glo­ry may appear,
Clad with our re­sur­rect­ion vest,
When Thou shalt lead Thy flock most dear
Up to the man­sions of the blest.

Henry More (1614–1687), alt.