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

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 
With all thy 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 thy blessèd Spirit bear a part, 
And make up our defects with his sweet art.