1 All is o'er, the pain, the sorrow,
Human taunts and Satan's spite;
Death shall be despoiled tomorrow
Of the Prey he grasps tonight.
Yet once more, his own to save,
Christ must sleep within the grave.

2 Fierce and deadly was the anguish
On the bitter 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.

3 Close and still the tomb 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.

4 So this night, with voice of sadness
Chant the anthem soft and low;
Loftier strains of praise and gladness
From tomorrow's harps shall flow:
Death and Hell at length are slain,
Christ has triumphed! Christ doth reign!