While Christ's disciples, grieving, sad, Their Master's painful death deplore, Whom faithless servants' cruel hands, Had bathed in His own crimson gore; Quick from the happy realms above, An Angel comes on joyful wing, And to the women tells the joy That to His flock their Lord will bring. As they with eager steps make haste, Their joyous message to repeat, Their Master's glorious form they see, And falling clasp His sacred feet. Cheered by this tale, His faithful flock The Galilean mount ascend, And there with loving awe behold Their heart's sole wish, their truest friend. That Thou mayst be our Paschal joy Through happy, never-ending years, Thine own poor children, Jesu, free From sin's sad death with all its fears. To God the Father, and the Son, Who rose from death, glad praise repeat; Let equal praise be ever sung To God the Holy Paraclete.