Light’s glit­ter­ing morn be­decks the sky;
Heav’n thun­ders forth its vic­tor cry;
The glad earth shouts her tri­umph high,
And groaning hell makes wild re­ply.

While He, the King, the migh­ty King,
Despoiling death of all its sting,
And, tramp­ling down the pow­ers of night,
Brings forth His ran­somed saints to light.

His tomb of late the three­fold guard
Of watch and stone and seal had barred;
But now, in pomp and tri­umph high,
He comes from death to vic­to­ry.

The pains of hell are loosed at last;
The days of mourn­ing now are past;
An an­gel robed in light hath said,
The Lord is ris­en from the dead.

Th’Apostles’ hearts were full of pain
For their dear Lord so late­ly slain,
By re­bel ser­vants doomed to die
A death of cru­el ago­ny.

With gen­tle voice the an­gel gave
The wo­men tid­ings at the grave;
Fear not, your mas­ter shall ye see;
He goes be­fore to Ga­li­lee.

Then, hast­en­ing on their ea­ger way
The joy­ful tid­ings to con­vey,
Their Lord they met, their liv­ing Lord,
And fall­ing at His feet ad­ored.

Th’Eleven, when they hear, with speed
To Ga­li­lee forth­with pro­ceed,
That there once more they may be­hold
The Lord’s dear face, as He fore­told.