On Easter morn, when holy chimes are ringing,
God’s breath of peace on all the scene around,
I seem to hear descending angels singing,
Till they have made the earth all hallowed ground.
Rest, pilgrims rest, no more your hearts are aching,
No more ye burdens bear, or sorrows weep;
Rest, pilgrims, rest, till life’s glad morn be breaking,
’Tis God, who giveth His belovèd sleep.
Assuaged our grief, we tread the path before us,
Fulfill the days of our appointed time;
While each year brings again the Easter chorus,
And we look for that last great change sublime.
Ye angels, bear love’s cup of consolation,
Fly with the Easter sun round the glad earth;
Proclaim that death in Christ is but translation,
That at His voice we rise to higher birth.
Say that with Him, shall come the dear departed,
Clothed in new beauty, they from dust shall rise;
Sing of that land where are no broken hearted,
Where God’s own hand wipes tears from weeping eyes.