If Je­sus rose not from the grave,
The faith of all His saints is vain:
That He can have no pow­er to save,
If death de­tains Him still, is plain.

If Je­sus rose not from the grave,
We’re guil­ty still, our sins re­main:
The hope is vain His peo­ple have;
If Je­sus rose not, hope is vain.

If Je­sus rose not from the grave,
His foes were right in all they said:
For He to all as­sur­ance gave
That He would rise, and leave the dead.

If Je­sus rose not from the grave,
Then all He said was emp­ty boast:
His claims no good foun­da­tion have;
And they who sleep in Him are lost.

If Je­sus rose not from the grave,
The thief that per­ished by His side,
As just a claim as He would have,
To be the sin­ner’s hope and guide.

But now is Je­sus ris­en indeed:
The first fruits He of those who sleep:
Rejoice ye saints, the Pris­on­er’s freed;
For who could such a pris­on­er keep?

He fought with Death, the saints’ last foe:
And though He seemed to lose the day,
’Twas Death sus­tained the ov­er­throw,
Subdued by Him who seemed his prey.

Doubt then no more, ye saints, nor grieve
The Lord is ris­en, is ris­en in­deed;
Because He lives, His saints shall live:
Shall live with Him, their glo­ri­ous head.

He sits at God’s right hand above,
The dread of foes, the joy of friends;
Supreme in power, in truth, in love,
His king­dom, one that ne­ver ends.

The glo­ri­ous day is draw­ing near,
When He who lay in yon­der tomb,
With crowds of an­gels shall ap­pear,
And take His wait­ing peo­ple home.