Rise from your graves, ye dead!
Thus shall the call be sound­ed,
Which on the lat­ter day
Shall find us all as­tound­ed;
Which to the faith­ful flock
Shall pro­mise rare de­light,
And fill the trem­bling hearts
Of sin­ners with af­fright.

Rise from your graves, ye dead!
Your sleep at last is ov­er,
Ye bless­èd of the Lord,
No more with­out shall ho­ver.
The gar­ments are pre­pared,
The crowns for you are stored,
Enter in­to the joy
And com­fort of your Lord!

Rise from your graves, ye dead!
Come from your earth­ly co­ver;
Ye wick­ed all the pangs
Of hell shall now dis­cov­er.
Ye once re­ject­ed Me,
I hold you no­thing worth;
Wailing and gnash­ing teeth
Shall be your lot hence­forth.

Rise from your graves, ye dead!
Lo, here are bone and tis­sue
Flesh, sin­ew, hands, eye, foot!
From earth and air they is­sue.
That where­with you have served
The Lord is glo­ri­fied,
That where­with you have sinned,
Consumed and cast aside.

Rise from your graves, ye dead!
Ye faith­ful now shall glo­ry
In ha­los like the sun,
Undimmed, un­tran­si­to­ry.
Immortal bo­dies with im­mor­tal
Souls shall blend,
Ye shall en­joy the rest
Of saints that hath no end.