God hath made that same Jesus whom ye have crucified both Lord and Christ.
BOUND upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood, and writhing limb,
By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,
By the baffled, burning thirst,
By the drooping, death-dewed brow,
Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks and rending veil,
By earth trembling at his doom,
By yon saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere he died
To the felon at his side,
Lord! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He?
By the last and bitter cry,
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chambers of the dead:
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! we know Thee now:
Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the prayer for them that slew,
Lord! they know not what they do!'
By the spoiled and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before his throne,
By the rainbow round his brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!
And as she wept, she stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre, and seeth two angels in white, sitting.
WEEP, Zion, weep;
In death's deep sleep
Your King his head doth bow;
The lips are silent now
Whence grace was wont to flow.
In saddest strain
Our songs complain;
What grievous wonder here!
This Son of God, most dear,
Doth fill the mortal bier!
Yet O rejoice!
With soul and voice,
The mystery is fled!
He riseth from the dead,
As our own hearts had said!
The Lord is risen indeed!
CHRIST the Lord is risen to day! Sons of men and angels say,
Raise your joys and triumphs high;
Sing, ye heavens, thou earth reply.
Love's redeeming work is done;
Fought the fight, the battle won ;
Lo! the sun's eclipse is o'er;
Lo! he sets in blood no more.
Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Christ hath burst the gates of hell; Death in vain forbids his rise, Christ hath opened Paradise.
Lives again our glorious King! Where, O death, is now thy sting? Once He died our souls to save; Where's thy victory, boasting grave?
Soar we now where Christ hath led,
Following our exalted head;
Made like Him, like Him we rise,
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies.
King of Glory! Soul of bliss!
Everlasting life is this,
Thee to know, thy power to prove,
Thus to sing, and thus to love.
ANGEL roll the rock away,
Death! yield up thy mighty prey;
See Him rising from the tomb,
Glowing in immortal bloom.
'Tis the Saviour! Angel, raise
Fame's eternal trump of praise;
Let the world's remotest bound
Hear the joy-inspiring sound.
Shout, ye saints, in rapturous song!
Let the strain be sweet and strong!
Shout the Son of God this morn
From his sepulchre new born!
Hail, victorious Jesus, hail!
On thy cloud of glory sail
In long triumph to the sky,
Up to waiting worlds on high.
Heaven displays its portals wide,
Glorious Hero, through them ride!
King of Glory mount thy throne-
Thy great Father's and thy own.
Powers of Heaven, seraphic quires, Sing, and sweep your golden lyres; Sons of men, in humbler strains, Sing, your mighty Saviour reigns.
And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.
OH! day of days! shall hearts set free,
No 'minstrel rapture' find for thee?
Thou art the sun of other days,
They shine by giving back thy rays:
Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere
Thou shedd'st thy light on all the year;
Sundays by thee more glorious break,
An Easter Day in every week.
And week days, following in their train,
The fulness of thy blessing gain,
Till all, both resting and employ,
Be one Lord's-day of holy joy.
Then wake, my soul, to high desires,
And earlier light thy altar fires:
The world some hours is on her way,
Nor thinks on thee, thou blessed day:
Or, if she think, it is in scorn:
The vernal light of Easter morn
To her dark gaze no brighter seems,
Than Reason's or the Law's pale beams.
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