All Is O'er, The Pain, The Sorrow

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!"