Did we not ascend to the hill with the Master?
Did we not stand in his holy presence?
But my hands are unclean and my heart is impure.
My lips are stained with falsehood, my vows with deceit.
This is the generation of those who seek him.
Lower your heads, O gates,
And be thrown down, you ancient doors.
A procession of the dead issues forth.
What is death that it should swallow us whole,
That the shrill darkness of night should prevail,
That the grave should wound with its sting?
The dead pray not for healing, and corpses do not fast.
The shrouded ones have no use for sackcloth and ash.
What sacrifice can hands bring when they are cold?
Yet even these shall receive blessing from the Lord
And righteousness from the God of his salvation!
Yes, be lifted up in the city gates,
Throw yourselves wide and open at the door—
The King of Glory is at hand!
Who is this king, the Lord of Hosts?
He who will overcome death for all time,
Even the veil stretched out over all nations.
For the widow’s son lives, and justice is served—
Mercy reigns, and God visits his people.
Words from the Master’s mouth are truth, and life.
His hands hold healing, and his heart compassion.
Yes, arise, young man! Your generation is made new.