Night had fall­en on the ci­ty,
And the streets at last were still,
Where the noi­sy throng the day-long,
Did the air with shout­ings fill.
And the wea­ry way­worn tra­vel­ers
Preaching Je­sus thro’ the land,
Were in deep­est dun­geon dark­ness,
At the ma­gis­trates’ com­mand.

Many stripes to them were giv­en
Many curs­es on them cast;
Many bolts and bars sur­round them,
In the stocks their feet were fast.
While the trus­ty Ro­man jail­er,
All se­cure­ly slum­ber­ing on,
Little dreamed the migh­ty won­der
Of the mor­row’s ear­ly dawn.

Hark the sigh­ing of the pri­son­ers,
Hear their moan­ings loud and long;
No, again, and loud­er, clear­er,
’Tis the voice of pray­er and song.
See, the pri­son walls are shak­ing,
And the door wide op­en stands;
Lo, the earth, the earth is quak­ing,
Loosed are ev­ery pri­son­er’s bands.

Oh, there’s not a cell so lone­ly,
But a song may ec­ho there;
Oh, there’s not a night so cheer­less,
But there’s po­ten­cy in pray­er.
Sing, oh sing, thou wea­ry pil­grim,
Song will bring thee heav’n­ly peace,
Pray, oh pray, thou bur­dened pri­son­er,
God will give thee sweet re­lease.