Again the morn of gladness,

The morn of light is here;

The earth itself looks fairer,

And heaven itself more near;

The bells, like angel voices,

Speak peace to every breast:

And all the land lies quiet

To keep the day of rest.

Glory be to Jesus,

Let all his children say;

He rose again, he rose again,

On this glad day.

Again, O loving Savior,

The children of thy grace

Prepare themselves to seek thee

Within thy chosen place.

Our song shall rise to greet thee,

If thou our hearts wilt raise;

If thou our lips wilt open,

Our mouth shall show thy praise.

The shining choir of angels

That rest not day or night,

The crowned and palm-decked martyrs,

The saints arrayed in white,

The happy lambs of Jesus

In pastures fair above--

These all adore and praise him,

Whom we too praise and love.

The Church on earth rejoices

To join with these today;

In every tongue and nation

She calls her sons to pray;

Across the northern snow-fields,

Beneath the Indian palms,

She makes the same pure offering,

And sings the same sweet psalms.

Tell out, sweet bells, his praises!

Sing, children, sing his Name!

Still louder and still farther

His mighty deeds proclaim,

Till all whom he redeemèd

Shall own him Lord and King,

Till every knee shall worship,

And every tongue shall sing,