1 The grave itself a garden is,
Where loveliest flowers abound;
Since Christ, our never-fading life,
Sprang from that holy ground.
2 Oh, give us grace to die to sin,
That we, O Lord, may have
A holy, happy rest in Thee,
A Sabbath in the grave.
3 Thou, Lord, baptized in Thine own blood,
And buried in the grave,
Didst raise Thyself to endless life,
Omnipotent to save.
4 Baptized into Thy death we died,
And buried were with Thee,
That we might live with Thee to God,
And ever blest might be.
5 Lord, through the grave and gate of death
May we, with Thee, arise
To an eternal Easter-Day,
Of glory in the skies.
|First Line:||The grave itself a garden is|
|Title:||The grave itself a garden is|
|Author:||Bp. C. Wordsworth (1862)|
|Topic:||Burial of the Dead; Easter Even|
|Notes:||Tune name in index: FARRANT|
|Name:||[The grave itself a garden is]|
|Key:||F Major or modal|