On the pro­mised third day morn­ing,
Jesus walked from Jo­seph’s tomb;
Thus on Sa­tan He served warn­ing
Of an ev­er­last­ing doom;
For the grave could not re­tain Him,
Though the hu­man path He trod,
But the bands of death must yield Him,
As He was the Son of God.

This gives hope in Je­sus’ com­ing,
For the saints who sleep in Him;
They shall wak­en in the morn­ing,
Then their eyes shall ne’er grow dim;
Tho’ by na­ture they are mor­tal,
And are sub­ject to de­cline,
They shall then be made im­mor­tal,
And in Je­sus’ im­age shine.

When the graves give up their trea­sure,
And the dead to life are brought,
Then their joy no one can mea­sure,
Who with Je­sus’ blood were bought;
For the pro­phets have been writ­ing
Of that day so soon to come;
And a few are still de­light­ing
In the thought of home, sweet home.

Glory! Glory be to Je­sus!
For this re­sur­rect­ion hope;
How it thrills and tends to shield us
In the midst of much false hope;
We will tell it, we will sing it,
While we wait the day fore­told;
Still we’ll tell it, and will sing it,
When we walk the streets of gold.