Oh, sing the blessèd hope, ye saints!
To us who’re now alive:
Before in death the body faints
Our rapture may arrive.

Those laid in dust shall wake and sing,
Who now thro’ Je­sus sleep;
For God with Him will surely bring
The saints for whom we weep.

And as Thy coming, Lord, draws nigh,
Caught up in clouds we’ll sing,
O grave, where is thy vic­to­ry?
O death, where is thy sting?

No whirlwind’s force a passage rends
For one loved saint alone;
The Lord Himself from Heav’n descends,
And takes up all His own.