Ye heav’ns, with sounds of triumph ring;
Ye angels, burst into a song;
Jesus descends, victorious king,
And leads His shining train along.
Ye saints that sleep in dust, arise;
Let joy re-animate your clay;
Spring to your Savior thro’ the skies,
And round His throne your homage pay.
Then let the sons of Heav’n draw nigh,
While to th’astonished hosts you tell,
How feeble mortals rose so high
From graves and worms, from sin and hell.
Tell them, in accents like their own,
What an incarnate God could do;
Then point to Jesus on the throne,
And boast, that Jesus died for you.
Transported, they no more can hear;
Their voices catch the sacred name;
Harmonious to His Father’s ear,
Jesus the God, their harps proclaim.
Sin hath its dire incursions made,
That Thou might’st prove Thy power to save;
And death its ensigns wide displayed,
That Thou might’st triumph o’er the grave.