He who died has gone before you,

Trod de wine-press all alone.

He whose thunders shake creation;

He who bids the planets roll;

He who rides upon the temple, (tempest)

An' his scepter sways de whole.

Dark and thorny is de desert,

Through de pilgrim makes his ways,

Yet beyon' dis vale of sorrow,

Lies de fiel's of endless days.