The tomb is emp­ty; wouldst thou have it full?
Still sad­ly clasp­ing the un­breath­ing clay;
O weak in faith, O slow of heart and dull,
O dote on dark­ness, and shut out the day!

The tomb is emp­ty; He who, three short days,
After a sor­row­ing life’s long wea­ri­ness,
Found re­fuge in this roc­ky rest­ing place,
Has now as­cend­ed to the throne of bliss.

Here lay the Ho­ly One, the Christ of God,
He who for death gave death, and life for life;
Our hea­ven­ly kins­man, our true flesh and blood;
Victor for us on hell’s dark field of strife.

This was the Beth­el, where, on sto­ny bed,
While an­gels went and came from morn till ev­en,
Our tru­er Ja­cob laid His wea­ried head;
This was to Him the ve­ry gate of Hea­ven.

The Con­quer­or, not the con­quered, He to whom
The keys of death and of the grave be­long,
Crossed the cold thresh­old of the stran­ger’s tomb,
To spoil the spoil­er and to bind the strong.

Here death had reigned; in­to no tomb like this
Had man’s fell foe afore­time found his way;
So grand a tro­phy ne’er be­fore was his,
So vast a trea­sure, so di­vine a prey.

But now his tri­umph ends; the rock-barred door
Is op­ened wide, and the great Pri­son­er gone;
Look round and see, upon the va­cant floor
The nap­kin and the grave clothes lie alone.

Yes, death’s last hope, his strong­est fort and pri­son
Is shat­tered, ne­ver to be built again;
And He, the migh­ty Cap­tive, He is ris­en,
Leaving be­hind the gate, the bar, the chain.

Yes, He is ris’n who is the First and Last;
Who was and is; who liv­eth and was dead;
Beyond the reach of death He now has passed;
Of the one glo­ri­ous Church the glo­ri­ous Head.

The tomb is emp­ty; so, ere long shall be
The tombs of all who in this Christ re­pose;
They died with Him who died up­on the tree;
They live and rise with Him who lived and rose.

Death has not slain them, they are freed, not slain.
It is the gate of life, and not of death,
That they have en­tered; and the grave in vain
Has tried to sti­fle the im­mor­tal breath.

All that was death in them is now dis­solved;
For death can on­ly what is death’s de­stroy;
And when this earth’s short ag­es have re­volved,
The dis­im­pri­soned life comes forth with joy.

Their life long bat­tle with dis­ease and pain,
And mor­tal wea­ri­ness, is ov­er now;
Youth, health, and come­li­ness re­turn again,
The tear has left the cheek, the sweat the brow.

They are not tast­ing death, but tak­ing rest,
On the same ho­ly couch where Je­sus lay,
Soon to awake all glo­ri­fied and blest,
When day has broke and sha­dows fled away.