Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are end­ed!
Who, through death, have un­to God as­cend­ed!
Ye have aris­en
From the cares which keep us still in pri­son.

We are still as in a dun­geon liv­ing,
Still op­pressed with sor­row and mis­giv­ing;
Our un­der­tak­ings
Are but toils, and trou­bles, and heart-break­ings.

Ye mean­while, are in your cham­bers sleep­ing,
Quiet, and set free from all our weep­ing;
No cross nor tri­al
Hinders your en­joy­ments with de­ni­al.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ev­er;
Ye have that for which we still en­dea­vor.
To you are chant­ed
Songs which yet no mor­tal ear have haunt­ed.

Ah! who would not, then, de­part with glad­ness,
To in­her­it Hea­ven for earth­ly sad­ness?
Who here would lang­uish
Longer in be­wail­ing and in ang­uish?

Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us!
Lead us forth, and cast this world be­hind us!
With Thee, the An­oint­ed,
Finds the soul its joy and rest ap­point­ed.