Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee,

Glad at their own home now to meet thee.

All thy good works which went before,

And waited for thee at the door,

Shall own thee there; and all in one

Weave a constellation

Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,

Shall build up thy triumphant brows.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,

And thy pains sit bright upon thee:

All thy sorrows here shall shine,

And thy sufferings be divine.

Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,

And wrongs repent to diadems.

Even thy deaths shall live, and new

Dress the soul which late they slew.

Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars

As keep account of the Lamb’s wars.