Christ hath left the dismal tomb;--

Glory, Glory, He is risen;

Like a cloud hath passed the gloom,

As a dream, the prison.

From the Cross they bore Him there,

Torn and bleeding, and they wound Him

In soft linen white and fair,

And sweet fragrance round Him.

Christ hath left the dismal tomb;--

Glory, glory, death is lying

In the everlasting gloom,

From the conflict dying.

And His weeping followers came

From their hiding, and they sought Him,

Whither loving hands, in shame,

Sad and sorrowing, brought Him.

Christ hath left the dismal tomb;--

Glory, glory, He is risen;

Death has heard the voice of doom

In the empty prison.

And they sought the living there;

Weeping eyes, the morn is waking;

With the light give wings to care,

Night and death forsaking.