1 On this sweet morn my Lord arose,
Triumphant o'er the grave!
He dies to vanquish all my foes,
And lives again to save.
2 This is the day for holy rest,
Yet clouds will gather soon,
Except my Lord become my guest,
And put my harp in tune.
3 No heavenly fire my heart can raise,
Without the Spirit's aid;
His breath must kindle pray'r and praise,
Or I am cold and dead.
4 On all the flocks thy Spirit pour,
And saving health convey;
A sweet, refreshing Sunday show'r
Will make them sing and pray.
5 Direct thy shepherds how to feed
The flocks of thy own choice;
Give savour to the heavenly bread,
And bid the folds rejoice.
Source: Hymns, Selected and Original: for public and private worship (1st ed.) #626