The praise of Christ, ye Christians, sound;

The praise of Christ, ye Christians, sound;
His mighty acts be told;
Death has received a deadly wound;
He takes, but cannot hold.

Clipped are the greedy vulture's claws;
No more we dread his power;
He gapes with adamantine jaws,
And grins, but can't devour.

Believers in their darksome graves
Shall start, to light restored;
Forsake their monumental caves,
And mount to meet the Lord.

Not long in ground the dying grain
Is hid, or lies forlorn;
But soon revives, and springs again,
And comes to standing corn.

So, waking from the womb of earth,
Where Christ has lain before,
And bursting to a better birth,
We rise to die no more.

The wicked, too, shall rise again,
The difference will be this:
They rise to everlasting pain,
And saints to endless bliss.