The gentle slopes of Olivet were green,
And oleanders censed the passers by,
And fronded palms lent grandeur to the scene
As the victorious Lord went up on high.

On rugged mountain tops where rocks were strown,
And o'er rough roads, his feet had often strayed,
Last, in Gethsemane's deep shades, alone,
The stricken, sorrowing Christ had knelt and prayed;

Now death itself was past, and he, a king,
Midst angel guards assumed his primal power;
O sleeping sons of men, awake and sing,
This is not his but your triumphal hour!

He broke from Joseph's tomb that ye might break
From all the graves that bar your souls from day,
He drank anew life's cup that ye might take
Unstinted draughts of Heaven along the way;

He rose to higher worlds that ye might rise
From earth-born doubts and tombs of low desire,
'Twas your redemption song that filled the skies
When he was met by all the angel choir.

O Risen Christ, we never trod with thee
Judean fields, where scarlet lilies flower,
Nor with the silent group near Bethany
Stood wondering, at thy great ascension hour,

Yet in thy conquering life we have a share,
Thy pity and thy peace to us belong;
The crowns thou wearest we thy followers wear,
The sceptred strength thou wieldest makes us strong.