On East­er morn, when ho­ly chimes are ring­ing,
God’s breath of peace on all the scene around,
I seem to hear des­cend­ing an­gels sing­ing,
Till they have made the earth all hal­lowed ground.

Refrain

Rest, pil­grims rest, no more your hearts are ach­ing,
No more ye bur­dens bear, or sor­rows weep;
Rest, pil­grims, rest, till life’s glad morn be break­ing,
’Tis God, who giv­eth His be­lovèd sleep.

Assuaged our grief, we tread the path be­fore us,
Fulfill the days of our ap­point­ed time;
While each year brings again the East­er chor­us,
And we look for that last great change sub­lime.

Refrain

Ye an­gels, bear love’s cup of con­so­la­tion,
Fly with the East­er sun round the glad earth;
Proclaim that death in Christ is but trans­la­tion,
That at His voice we rise to high­er birth.

Refrain

Say that with Him, shall come the dear de­part­ed,
Clothed in new beau­ty, they from dust shall rise;
Sing of that land where are no brok­en heart­ed,
Where God’s own hand
Wipes tears from weep­ing eyes.

Refrain