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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!”