Bless'd morning, whose young dawning rays
Beheld our rising God
That saw him triumph o'er the dust,
And leave his dark abode!
In the cold prison of a tomb
the dead Redeemer lay,
Till the revolving skies had brought
The third, th' appointed day.
Hell and the grave unite their force
To hold our God in vain;
The sleeping Conqueror arose,
And burst their feeble chain.
To thy great name, almighty Lord
These sacred hours we pay;
And loud hosannahs shall proclaim
The triumph of the day.
Salvation and immortal praise
To our victorious King;
Let heav'n, and earth, and rocks, and seas,
With glad hosannahs ring.
from The Psalms and Hymns of Isaac Watts
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