Blest morn­ing, whose young dawn­ing rays
Beheld our ris­ing God,
That saw Him tri­umph o’er the dust,
And leave His dark ab­ode!

In the cold pri­son of a tomb
The dead Re­deem­er lay,
Till the re­volv­ing skies had brought
The third, th’ap­point­ed day.

Hell and the grave unite their force
To hold our God in vain;
The sleep­ing Con­quer­or arose,
And burst their fee­ble chain.

To Thy great name, al­migh­ty Lord,
These sacr­ed hours we pay;
And loud ho­san­nas shall pro­claim
The tri­umph of the day.

Salvation and im­mor­tal praise
To our vic­to­ri­ous king;
Let Heav’n, and earth, and rocks, and seas,
With glad ho­san­nas ring.