An Eastertide Hymn

Light’s glittering morn bedecks the sky,

Heav’n thunders forth its victor cry:

The glad earth shouts her triumph high,

And groaning hell makes wild reply.

While he, the King of sovereign might,

Treads down death’s strength in death’s despite,

And trampling hell by victor’s right,

Brings forth his sleeping saints to light.

Fast barred beneath the stone of late,

In watch and ward where soldiers wait,

Now shining in triumphant state,

He rises victor from death’s gate.

Hell’s pains are loosed and tears are fled:

Captivity is captive led:

The angel, crowned with light, hath said:

‘The Lord is risen from the dead.’

Author of all, be thou our guide

In this our joy of Eastertide;

Whene’er assaults of death impend,

Thy people strengthen and defend.

To thee who, dead, again dost live,

All glory, Lord, thy people give:

All glory, as is ever meet,

To Father and to Paraclete.