Ye heav’ns, with sounds of tri­umph ring;
Ye an­gels, burst in­to a song;
Jesus des­cends, vic­tor­ious king,
And leads His shin­ing train along.

Ye saints that sleep in dust, arise;
Let joy re-ani­mate your clay;
Spring to your Sav­ior thro’ the skies,
And round His throne your hom­age pay.

Then let the sons of Heav’n draw nigh,
While to th’as­ton­ished hosts you tell,
How fee­ble mor­tals rose so high
From graves and worms, from sin and hell.

Tell them, in ac­cents like their own,
What an in­car­nate God could do;
Then point to Je­sus on the throne,
And boast, that Je­sus died for you.

Transported, they no more can hear;
Their voic­es catch the sac­red name;
Harmonious to His Fa­ther’s ear,
Jesus the God, their harps pro­claim.

Sin hath its dire in­cur­sions made,
That Thou might’st prove Thy pow­er to save;
And death its en­signs wide di­splayed,
That Thou might’st tri­umph o’er the grave.