O re­sur­rect­ion morn,
The wea­ry world is shorn
Today of all its gloom!
For truth has rolled away
The stone from fear’s ar­ray,
And emp­ty is the tomb.

Now is death’s prob­lem solved,
The day of days evolved
Out of its flesh­ly guise;
The Son of Right­eous­ness
Hath rent His earth­ly dress,
That Christ must thus arise.

No long­er can the walls
That dream­ily en­thrall
Man’s glo­ry, hide from sight;
For One with God-like mien
(Back of the prism seen)
Hath pierced them thro’ with light.

Yet through the sha­dowy deep,
Up Cal­va­ry’s roc­ky steep
His soul hath sure­ly trod;
For dead and bur­ied He
From sense of self must be
Who knows His Fa­ther—God.

O day of days com­plete,
Odorous with vic­to­ries sweet,
And crowned with ten­der grace!
The dia­dem of thorns
Majestically ad­orns
The well-run, pa­tient race.

O Christ, the pe­rfect Whole,
Thou re­sur­rect­ed soul,
The glo­ri­ous con­quest done!
Thou Truth, and Life, and Way
To im­mor­ta­li­ty
With God, th’eter­nal One!