The glo­ry of God from the way of the East
Shines in­to the se­pul­cher, slum­ber has ceased;
The stone, like a cloud, has moved light­ly away,
And on it there sits a strong an­gel of day.

O seize him, ye sol­diers—he sits on the stone:
Before him no bar, but be­neath him a throne;
Bedazzled and smit­ten by ter­ri­ble light,
The sol­diers, they trem­ble and fall in their flight.

O, ring, bells of Hea­ven; ye throngs of the blest,
Again hal­le­lu­jahs may swell from your breast;
Let surg­es of mu­sic, like sum­mer seas bright,
Re-echo and roll through the hea­ven­ly height.

They hat­ed and sent Him in dark­ness to dwell
Beneath the great mount­ains and bil­lows of hell;
But He lit the ca­verns of an­cient des­pair,
And with a new chain bound the fiend in his lair.

And free­dom He gave those who sore­ly were bruised;
He tri­umphs to­day whom the peo­ple re­fused:
Of all that have loved Him He’ll com­fort the soul,
His own wound­ed heart is for ev­er made whole.

And, O, ye kind an­gels, who grieved for your song,
Now sing that the right has pre­vailed ov­er wrong;
The best of good-will shines through hat­red and pain
And glo­ry and peace have aris­en to reign.