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When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes—O whence shall aid Be drawn, to meet his rushing, undismay'd? —Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain'd The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror—all became thine own!

But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power? No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, From man averted—and thy path on high Pass'd through the strait of fiercest agony; For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!

But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod, Break forth in joy, ye ransom'd! saith your God! Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.

He rose! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them, in Him that slept.