They move, they accost us, and they seem Like creatures of some weary dream; So dead, so lost, so all-estranged, The fire which cheered us with its gleam Into the veriest ashes changed.
While if our dear and living dead, With soft, still smiles and noiseless tread, Should come, some day, to the old place, There would not be a thought of dread In their first rapture of embrace!
Oh, strangely blended joy and pain! Death turned to naught, and life made vain, Love’s shade and substance still at strife, Who shall decide between the twain, Or which is death, and which is life?
AWAKE, awake, dull heart, and sing The praises of thy Lord and King, Who gives the new day and the sun, Hope, health, and every pleasant thing.
He scatters all the shades of night, Out of the darkness builds the light, And on man’s ignorance and wrong Founds his eternal law of right.
If he one hour withdrew his care The Earth would stagger in blind air, And laughter would give place to wail, And hope to horror, everywhere.
Angels and saints, the white-robed choir, Praise God all day, and never tire, And weaker voices from below May join and swell the chorus higher.
For praise is privilege there as here, And each in his own place and sphere, Angel or man, or high or low, May take his share and count it dear.
Then wake, my heart, remembering this, That truest praise true service is, And take thy new day from God’s hands, And work therein for him and his.
“HOW shall the stone be rolled away?” Thus questioned they, the women three, Who at dim dawn went forth to see The sealed and closely guarded cell Where slept the Lord they loved so well. First of all Easter sacrifice, The linen and the burial spice, They carried, as with anxious speech They sadly questioned, each to each: Still, as they near and nearer drew The puzzle and the terror grew, And none had word of cheer to say; But lo, the stone was rolled away!
“How shall the stone be rolled away?” So, like the Marys, question we, As looking on we dimly see Some mighty barrier raise its head To bar the path we needs must tread. Our little strength seems weakness made, Our hearts are faint and sore afraid; Drooping we journey on alone. We only mark the heavy stone, We do not see the helping Love Which moves before us as we move, Which chides our faithless, vain dismay, And rolls for us the stone away!