Sing the song, the tri­umph song,
The vic­tor’s crown is on;
Shout to Christ and march along,
The bat­tle’s fought and won;
Raise it till it shake the sky!
For the saints, the saints on high,
Their day of strife and la­bor done.

Down the deep and dark­some vale
They passed from out of sight;
Now beyond its ri­ver pale
They mount to death­less light,
To the land of ver­dant bow­ers,
And of sweet, un­fad­ing flow­ers,
For ev­er fair, for ev­er bright.

On! up­on the ho­ly height
An al­tar-throne is spread;
See the Lamb, in ra­di­ant light,
With thorn-en­cir­cled head.
See, the saints from val­ley rise,
Find with glad, ex­pect­ant eyes,
Their Sav­ior, Je­sus Christ the Lord.

Patriarchs and pro­phets stand
In joy on ei­ther side,
Now pos­sess the Pro­mised Land
Bestowed by Him who died.
Now their types are all com­plete,
Priest and king and pro­phet meet,
In glad ac­cord, and sa­tis­fied.

Mary now in joy­ous cheer,
The maid­en, mo­ther, queen;
John the Bap­tist, John the Seer,
This tri­umph once fore­seen;
Peter with the dou­ble keys,
Magdalen up­on her knees,
Apostles twelve in gold­en sheen.

Innocents by Her­od slain,
The clouds about the sun;
Crimson-flushed, bap­tized in pain,
Ere life had well be­gun,
Now with an­gels, hand in hand,
Roam about the hap­py land
Without a fear, with trou­ble none.

Catharine, from wheel and blade,
Ascends to per­fect day;
Cicely, in snow ar­rayed,
Comes sing­ing on her way.
Lucy, with her lamp alight,
Virgin co­hort, fair and bright,
With roses and with lil­ies gay.

Martyr host, con­fess­ors true,
And ma­ny a faith­ful priest;
Humble souls, earth ne­ver knew,
The first who were the least.
Sing the saints, their sor­rows o’er,
Weeping, want­ing now no more,
They full en­joy the mar­riage feast.