How long shall Death, the tyrant, reign And triumph o'er the just? How long the blood of martyrs slain, Lie mingled with the dust? Lo, I behold the scattered shades, The dawn of heav'n appears; The bright, immortal morning spreads Its blushes round the spheres.

I see the Lord of glory come, And flaming guards around; The skies divide to make Him room, The trumpet shakes the ground. I hear the voice, “Ye dead arise!” And lo! the graves obey; And waking saints, with joyful eyes, Salute th' expected day.

O, may our humble spirits stand Among them, clothed in white! The meanest place at His right hand Is infinite delight. How will our joy and wonder rise, When our returning King Shall bear us homeward thru the skies On love's triumphant wing!