All is o'er, the pain, the sorrow,
Human taunts and fiendish spite;
Death shall be despoiled tomorrow
Of the prey he grasps tonight;
Yet awhile, His own to save,
Christ must linger in the grave.

Dark and still the cell that holds Him,
While in brief repose He lies;
Deep the slumber that enfolds Him,
Veiled awhile from mortal eyes;
Slumber such as needs must be
After hard won victory.

Fierce and deadly was the anguish
Which on yonder cross He bore;
How did soul and body languish
Till the toil of death was o'er:
But that toil, so fierce and dread,
Bruised and crushed the serpent's head.

All night long, with plaintive voicing,
Chant His requiem soft and low:
Loftier strains of loud rejoicing
From tomorrow's harps shall flow:
“Death and hell at length are slain!
Christ hath triumphed! Christ doth reign!”