Come thunderers of God; let's preach a message plain.
By rot is myrrh undone;
By worm is aloes spoiled.
But death's unclean corruptive fingers must refrain
To touch the Holy One,
Whom very hell must yield.
Come trumpeters of God; let's raise a new-made song.
The tomb is black and deep,
With dead uncrowded still.
But hangs no fatal curse on Him who did no wrong.
He is not held by sleep
Who fills the world and all.
Come warriors of God; let's sweep through error’s field
And storm the mighty wall
Around his many lies.
Let’s swing the glinting sword that shatters every shield
Defending his blared call
That Jesus did not rise.
Come couriers of God; let no man rest untold,
For hearing stops and sense
Dissolves when life’s outpoured.
So challenge all still free from death’s oppressive hold
To turn from ignorance
And view our living Lord.
1989, 2012, 2014
