Father of spi­rits, whose di­vine con­trol
Doth bind the soul and bo­dy into one;
Thou wilt re­store this bo­dy now un­done;
For once it was the man­sion of a soul,
Where dwelt the glow­ing wisdom of Thy Son.

Thou, mak­er of the bo­dy, dost or­dain
That this Thine im­age, mold­ed by Thy will,
Our ev­ery hope in glo­ry shall ful­fill;
So, till the bo­dy Thou dost build again,
Thou wilt pre­serve the spi­rit freed from ill.

In that blest re­gion shall this spi­rit dwell
Where flow­ers un­dy­ing bloom on ev­ery side:
For lo, we trust Thy Word, O Cru­ci­fied,
When in Thy tri­umph over death and hell,
The thief for­giv­en took Thee for his guide.

Our bro­ther go­eth by the shin­ing way,
That ev­er to the faith­ful op­en lies:
Lord, train Thy ser­vant now in pa­ra­dise,
And bless him in his fa­therland, we pray,
Till Thou shalt bid his bo­dy to arise.