It is fin­ished, all the pain
All the sor­row, all the strain;
Death has freed the Lord of life
From the bur­den of His strife.

It is fin­ished, all the days,
Led through ma­ny wea­ry ways;
Now at last His eye­lids close
On the hat­red of His foes.

It is fin­ished, all the love,
Deep as His that dwells above;
Saving oth­ers, all He gave,
But Him­self He could not save.

It is fin­ished, Hark! the cry,
Uttered in love’s ag­ony,
Is the seal, be­low, above,
Of the vic­to­ry of love.