And change their cold corrupted clay,
To rise, undying, from the dead;
Be thou our helper, and our stay,
When comes creation’s final day,
When roll the parching skies away,
And loud the archangel trumpets ring!
That such our triumph-song may be,
As rapt, we rise to life and thee,
Oh grave where is thy victory,
Where, Spoiler, is thy sting!