Put on thy beau­ti­ful robes, Bride of Christ,
For the King shall em­brace thee to­day,
Break forth in­to sing­ing, the morn­ing has dawned,
And the sha­dows of the night speed away.

Shake off the dust from thy feet, Bride of Christ,
For the Con­quer­or, gird­ed with might,
Has van­quished the de­vil, the dra­gon cast down,
And the co­horts of Hell put to flight.

Thou art the Bride of His love, His elect—
Dry thy tears, for thy sor­rows are past;
Long were all the hours when thy Lord was away,
But He comes with the morn­ing at last.

The winds bear the noise of His cha­ri­ot wheels,
And the thun­ders of vic­to­ry roar;
Lift up thy beau­ti­ful gates, Bride of Christ,
For the grave has do­min­ion no more.

Once they ar­rayed Him with scorn­ing, but see,
His ap­par­el is glo­ri­ous now:
In His hand are the keys of death and of hell,
And the dia­dem gleams on His brow.

Hark! ’tis her voice: Al­le­lu­ia—she sings—
Alleluia, the cap­tives are free;
Unfolded now the gates of pa­ra­dise stand,
And un­fold­ed they for ev­er shall be.

Choir an­swers choir, where the song has no end,
All the saints raise ho­san­nahs on high;
Deep calls un­to deep in the ocean of love,
As the Bride lifts her ju­bi­lant cry!