That East­er­tide with joy was bright,
The sun shone out with fair­er light,
When, to their long­ing eyes re­stored,
The glad apos­tles saw their Lord.

He bade them see His hands, His side,
Where yet the glo­ri­ous wounds abide;
The to­kens true which made it plain
Their Lord in­deed was ris­en again.

Jesus, the King of gen­tle­ness,
Do Thou Thy­self our hearts pos­sess
That we may give Thee all our days
The tri­bute of our grate­ful praise.

O Lord of all, with us abide
In this our joy­ful Eas­ter­tide;
From ev­ery wea­pon death can wield
Thine own re­deemed for­ev­er shield.

All praise be Thine, O ris­en Lord,
From death to end­less life re­stored;
All praise to God the Fa­ther be
And Ho­ly Ghost eter­nal­ly.