To all the saints of God on earth;
Their death day is their day of birth
Death is their door of life, the Sac­red Way
By which they pass to realms of end­less day.

And whence do all the saints de­rive
The life by which through death they live?
From God made flesh; on Him their vir­tues grow.
He is the fount from which their grac­es flow.

We sang to God on yes­ter­morn,
When Je­sus Christ for us was born;
And from His birth the saints their birth­days date;
And in the saints their Lord we ce­le­brate.

Today the first of mar­tyrs dies,
And dy­ing en­ters pa­ra­dise;
Foes rage against him; but what gleams of grace
Angelic shine on his trans­fig­ured face!

While storms of stones around him fly,
His soul is an­chored in the sky;
I see Heav’n op­ened, and at God’s right hand
The Son of Man, he cries, in glo­ry stand.

Jesu, re­ceive my soul, he says.
Kneels down, and then more loud­ly prays,
Lord, do not this their sin in me­mo­ry keep—
And when he thus had said, he fell asleep.

Lord, when we suf­fer here for Thee,
Grant us Thy glo­ri­ous face to see,
And on the spi­rit’s wings of faith and love
Waft us from earth to light and life above.

Praises to God the Fa­ther give,
And to the Son in whom we live;
And praise to God the Ho­ly Spi­rit be,
One ev­er­last­ing God, and Per­sons Three.