How in the flow­ery spring, my God,
The buds of pro­mise ope,
And blos­som o’er life’s thor­ny road,
To cheer the Chris­tian’s hope!
Like them ex­ult­ing from the tomb,
We, too, re­vived shall rise,
And flour­ish in im­mor­tal bloom,
In Ed­ens of the skies.

What though in pen­sive au­tumn’s wane,
Earth’s sere grown glo­ries fall,
And sleep through win­ter’s dull do­main,
When death is writ on all;
Exulting, in the break­ing year,
The li­ly doth un­close,
And dai­sies o’er the waste ap­pear,
And ros­es from the snows.

So then to dust, our dust shall turn,
So too shall rise and sing,
When falls up­on the moul­dered urn
The joy­ous dew of spring;
The God that rears the ten­der flow­ers,
And breathes to life their dust,
From cold­est grave will quick­en ours,
And new-cre­ate the just.