The Resurrection

1And when the last loud trumpet
Shall rend the vaulted skies,
And bid the entomb'd millions
From their cold beds arise,
Our ransom'd dust, revived,
Bright beauties shall put on,
And soar to the blest mansions
Where our Redeemer's gone.

2Our eyes shall then, with rapture,
The Saviour's face behold!
Our feet, no more diverted,
Shall walk the street of gold!
Our ears shall hear with transport
The hosts celestial sing!
Our tongues shall chant the glory
Of our immortal King.