Rise, heart, your lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delays,
Who takes you by the hand, that you likewise
With him may rise:
That, as his death calcinèd you to dust,
His life may make you gold, and, much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for your part
With all your art,
The cross taught all wood to resound his name
Who bore the same.
His stretchèd sinews taught all strings what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort, both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long;
Or, since all music is but three parts vied
And multiplied,
Oh let your blessèd Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.
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