Scripture Verse

Having disarmed the powers and authorities, He made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross. Colossians 2:15

Introduction

portrait
Paul Gerhardt (1607–1676)

Words: Paul Ger­hardt, 1648 (Auf, auf, mein Herz, mit Freud­en). Trans­lat­ed from Ger­man to Eng­lish by John Kel­ly, Paul Ger­hardt’s Spi­ri­tu­al Songs (Lon­don: Al­ex­an­der Stra­han, 1867), pages 71–74, alt.

Music: Auf, auf, mein Herz Jo­hann Crü­ger, 1648 (🔊 pdf nwc).

portrait
Johann Crüger (1598–1662)

Lyrics

Awake, my heart, with glad­ness,
See what to­day is done!
Now, af­ter gloom and sad­ness,
Comes forth the glo­ri­ous Sun!
My Sav­ior there was laid
Where our bed must be made
When to the realms of light
Our spir­it wings its flight.

The foe in tri­umph shout­ed
When Christ lay in the tomb;
But, lo, he now is rout­ed,
His boast is turned to gloom.
For Christ again is free;
In glo­ri­ous vic­to­ry
He who is strong to save
Has tri­umphed o’er the grave.

This is a sight that glad­dens;
What peace it doth im­part!
Now no­thing ev­er sad­dens
The joy with­in my heart.
No gloom shall ev­er shake,
No foe shall ev­er take,
The hope which God’s own Son
In love for me hath won.

Now hell, its prince, the dev­il
Of all their pow­ers are shorn;
Now I am safe from ev­il,
And sin I laugh to scorn.
Grim Death with all his might
Cannot my soul af­fright;
He is a pow­er­less form,
Howe’er he rave and storm.

The world against me rag­eth
Its fury I dis­dain;
Though bit­ter war it wag­eth
Its work is all in vain.
My heart from care is free,
No trou­ble trou­bles me.
Misfortune now is play
And night is bright as day.

Now I will cling for­ev­er
To Christ, my Sav­ior true;
My Lord will leave me ne­ver,
Whate’er He pass­eth through.
He rends death’s ir­on chain,
He breaks through sin and pain,
He shat­ters hell’s dark thrall,
I fol­low Him through all.

To halls of hea­ven­ly splen­dor
With Him I pe­ne­trate;
And trou­ble ne’er may hin­der
Nor make me he­si­tate.
Let tem­pests rage at will,
My Sav­ior shields me still;
He grants abid­ing peace
And bids all tu­mult cease.

He brings me to the por­tal
That leads to bliss un­told,
Whereon this rhyme im­mor­tal
Is found in script of gold:
Who there My cross hath shared
Finds here a crown pre­pared;
Who there with Me hath died
Shall here be glo­ri­fied.

illustration
The Resurrection
Matthias Grünewald (1470–1528)

Kelly’s original translation:

Up! up! my heart with glad­ness,
See what to-day is done!
How af­ter gloom and sad­ness
Comes forth the glo­ri­ous Sun!
My Sav­iour there was laid
Where our bed must be made,
When to the realms of light
Our spir­it wings its flight.

They in the grave did sink Him,
The foe held ju­bi­lee;
Before he can be­think him,
Lo! Christ again is free.
And vic­to­ry He cries,
And wav­ing tow’rds the skies
His ban­ner, while the field
Is by the He­ro held!

Upon the grave is stand­ing
The He­ro look­ing round;
The foe, no more with­stand­ing,
His wea­pons on the ground
Throws down, his hell­ish pow’r
To Christ must he give o’er,
And to the Vic­tor’s bands
Must yield his feet and hands.

A sight it is to glad­den
And fill the heart with glee,
No more af­fright or sad­den
Shall aught, or take from me
My trust or for­ti­tude,
Or any pre­cious good
The Sav­iour bought for me
In sov’reign love and free.

Hell and its bands can ne­ver
Hurt e’en a sin­gle hair,
Sin can I mock at ev­er,
Safe am I ev­ery­where.
The migh­ty pow’r of death
Is my re­gard be­neath;
It is a pow’r­less form,
Howe’er it rage and storm.

The world my laugh­ter ev­er
Moves, though it rage amain,
It rag­es, but can ne­ver
Do ill, its work is vain.
No trou­ble trou­bles me,
My heart from care is free,
Misfortune is my prize,
The night my fair sun­rise.

I cleave, and cleave shall ev­er,
To Christ, a mem­ber true,
Shall part from my Head ne­ver,
Whate’er He pass­es through;
He treads the world be­neath
His feet, and con­quers death
And hell, and breaks sin’s thrall;
I’m with Him through it all.

To halls of heav’n­ly splen­dor
With Him I pe­ne­trate;
And trou­ble ne’er may hin­der
Nor make me he­si­tate.
What will, may ang­ry be,
My Head ac­cept­eth me,
My Sav­iour is my Shield,
By Him all rage is still’d.

He to the gate me lead­eth
Of yon fair realms of light,
Whereon the pil­grim read­eth,
In gold­en let­ter bright:
Who’s there des­pised with me,
Here with me crown’d shall be;
Who there with me shall die,
Here’s raised with me on high!