Rise: The Great Fifty Days 16

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An earthquake hath the cavern shook,

And burst the door, and rent the rock,

The Lord hath sent his angel down,

And he hath rolled away the stone.

 

As snow behold his garment white,

His countenance as lightning bright:

He sits, and waves a flaming sword,

And waits upon his rising Lord.

 

The third auspicious morn is come,

And calls your Saviour from the tomb,

The bands of death are torn away,

The yawning tomb gives back its prey.

 

Charles Wesley, 1707-1788, Hymns for our Lord’s Resurrection, #1.

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