All is o’er, the pain, the sor­row,
Human taunts and fiend­ish spite;
Death shall be de­spoiled to­mor­row
Of the prey he grasps to­night;
Yet awhile, His own to save,
Christ must lin­ger in the grave.

Dark and still the cell that holds Him,
While in brief re­pose He lies;
Deep the slum­ber that en­folds Him,
Veiled awhile from mor­tal eyes;
Slumber such as needs must be
After hard won vic­to­ry.

Fierce and dead­ly was the ang­uish
Which on yon­der cross He bore;
How did soul and body lang­uish
Till the toil of death was o’er:
But that toil, so fierce and dread,
Bruised and crushed the ser­pent’s head.

All night long, with plaint­ive voic­ing,
Chant His re­qui­em soft and low:
Loftier strains of loud re­joic­ing
From to­mor­row’s harps shall flow:
Death and hell at length are slain!
Christ hath tri­umphed!
Christ doth reign!