Rise to the trilling thrush and meadow-lark,
New hope it takes.
As thou goest upward through the nameless space
We call the sky,
Like jonquil perfume softly falls Thy grace;
It seems to touch and brighten every place;
Fresh flowers crown our wan and weary race,
O Thou on high.
Hadst Thou not risen, there would be no more joy
Upon earth’s sod;