The Powerful Word That Reared the Skies

The pow­er­ful Word that reared the skies

Calls thro’ the world

Ye dead

arise;

The op­en­ing graves that Word ob­ey

And death and hell re­sign their prey.

Sinners with hor­ror and am­aze

Feel wrath di­vine up­on them seize;

The saints with joy­ful looks ap­pear

And forms and smiles ce­les­tial wear.

Grace in them now tri­umph­ant reigns

Freed from temp­ta­tions

sins

and pains

As an­gels pure

as cher­ubs gay

Dressed in im­mor­tal light as they.

O could I say Je­sus is mine

Hope thus to rise

and thus to shine!

Death would no hor­rid as­pect have

Nor dark­ness then be­gloom the grave.

In hopes of that il­lus­tri­ous day

That pow­er and grace to change my clay;

Cheer­ful I’d lay me down to rest

In that cold bed my Sav­ior blest.