Classic Poem

L IGHT'S glittering morn bedecks the sky;
Heaven thunders forth its victor-cry;
The glad earth shouts her triumph high,
And groaning hell makes wild reply;

While He, the King, the mighty King,
Despoiling death of all its sting,
And, trampling down the powers of night,
Brings forth His ransom'd Saints to light.

His tomb of late the threefold guard
Of watch and stone and seal had barr'd;
But now, in pomp and triumph high,
He comes from death to victory.

The pains of hell are loosed at last;
The days of mourning now are past;
An Angel robed in light hath said,
‘The Lord is risen from the dead.’