IT WAS EARLY ON A SUNDAY, by a city on a hill, When the women came with spices to the tomb, Then they saw the grave was open, and their aching hearts stood still, When the voice of shining figures pierced the gloom. He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, evermore, hes alive. On a dark and dreadful Friday, he had suffered and had died, With a scornful crown of thorns pressed on his brow. And they thought that all had ended, when they saw him crucified. But the angels tell a different story now.. He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, evermore, hes alive. May we every day remember, that he hung there in our place, When he bled and died in utter agony. But he gave himself up freely, such was his amazing grace, Now we share his resurrection victory. He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, evermore, hes alive. He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, He is risen, he is risen, he is risen, hes alive, evermore, hes alive. Hes alive, evermore, hes alive Hes alive, evermore, hes alive. Patrick Brandon and Susan Greydanus