The day draws on with gold­en light,
Glad songs go echo­ing through the height,
The broad earth lifts an an­swer­ing cheer,
The deep makes moan with wail­ing fear.

For lo, He comes, the migh­ty King,
To take from death his pow­er and sting,
To tram­ple down his gloomy reign
And break the wea­ry pri­son­er’s chain.

Enclosed He lay in roc­ky cell,
With guard of arm­èd sen­ti­nel;
But thence re­turn­ing, strong and free,
He comes with pomp of ju­bi­lee.

The sad Apos­tles mourn Him slain,
Nor hope to see their Lord again;
Their Lord, whom re­bel thralls de­fy,
Arraign, ac­cuse, and doom to die.

But now they put their grief away,
The pains of hell are loosed to­day;
For by the grave, with flash­ing eyes,
Your Lord is ris­en, the an­gel cries.

Maker of all, to Thee we pray,
Fulfill in us Thy joy to­day;
When death as­sails, grant, Lord, that we
May share Thy Pas­chal vic­to­ry.

To Thee who, dead, again, dost live,
All glo­ry, Lord, Thy peo­ple give;
All glo­ry, as is ev­er meet,
To Fa­ther and to Pa­ra­clete.