The King shall come when morn­ing dawns,
And light tri­um­phant breaks;
When beau­ty gilds the east­ern hills,
And life to joy awakes.

Not as of old, a lit­tle child
To bear, and fight, and die,
But crowned with glo­ry like the sun,
That lights the morn­ing sky.

O bright­er than the ris­ing morn
When He, vic­to­ri­ous, rose,
And left the lone­some place of death,
Despite the rage of foes.

O bright­er than that glo­ri­ous morn
Shall this fair morn­ing be,
When Christ, our king, in beau­ty comes,
And we His face shall see.

The King shall come when morn­ing dawns,
And earth’s dark night is past;
O, haste the ris­ing of that morn,
The day that aye shall last.

And let the end­less bliss begin,
By wea­ry saints fore­told,
When right shall tri­umph ov­er wrong,
And truth shall be ex­tolled.

The King shall come when morn­ing dawns,
And light and beau­ty brings—
Hail! Christ the Lord; Thy peo­ple pray,
Come quick­ly, King of kings.