1 The Lord into His Father's hands
With dying prayer His soul commends,
In triumph He yields up the ghost.
Lift up your heads, O heav'nly host,
Shout praise! Such glory ne'er shall be
As Jesus dying on the tree.

2 Now everlasting death is slain,
O'ercome by Jesus dying pain.
My death is precious in His sight:
O grave, where is your sting, your might?
Dark death is now the path to life,
Bright gain beyond a moment's strife.

3 Lord, from Your death I draw my life,
I see Your cross with comfort rife;
O let Your Passion's mighty pow'r
Work in my spirit from this hour,
And crucify me, Lord, that I
To You may live, to sin may die.