Hark! the trum­pet, earth’s four re­gions
Parting at the Gar­den head,
Empties Heav’n of all its le­gions,
Beggars hell of all its dead:
All who sang the globe’s cre­ation,
Caroled when the Christ was born,
Reap the world’s re­ge­ne­ra­tion,
Thrust their sic­kle in the corn.

O, to see them write in glo­ry
All they pic­tured once in gloom,
See who wiped the damp-drops go­ry,
Smoothed His grave clothes in the tomb;
See what brows were bent be­fore Him
When the mourn­er sought Him there,
See them now with thee ad­ore Him,
Magdalena, in the air!

Should one an­gel thence be part­ed,
One who min­is­tered to life,
Binding once the brok­en heart­ed,
Crowning now the bat­tle strife?
He who o’er the hill of Si­on
Drove the death­ful whirl­wind past,
Chained the Ba­by­lon­ish li­on,
Walked up­on the fur­nace blast.

Who from shroud­less des­ti­tu­tion
Bears the beg­gar to his rest;
Spread the worms of re­tri­bu­tion
On the ty­rant’s pur­pled breast;
Now the guard­ing and the guard­ed
Crowd the judg­ment seat in one;
Soon re­ward­ing and re­ward­ed
Part no more be­fore the throne.