Pain and toil are ov­er now;
Bring the spice and bring the myrrh,
Fold the limb and bind the brow,
In the rich man’s se­pul­cher.

Sin has bruised the Vic­tor’s heel;
Roll the stone and guard it well;
Bring the Ro­man’s boast­ed seal,
Bring his bold­est sen­ti­nel.

Yet the morn­ing’s pur­ple ray
Shall pre­sent a glo­ri­ous sight,
Stone by earth­quake rolled away,
Angel guards all robed in white.