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"They have taken away my Lord."


Y Lord," though dead, yet still "my Lord:"
Prophet through love's tenacity,
Powerless to hope, she yet adored,
And felt the truth she could not see.

If He who in Himself had shone
All that God is, all man may be,

Living the truth else guessed by none,
Through years of patient ministry;

He from Whom life and peace she drew,
Whom she had followed day by day,

And worshipped more, the more she knew,
Could fade to cold unconscious clay;

If that pure life of perfect love,

Extinguished, never more should beam, What joy could endless days above

Bring ever more, not bringing Him?

What were those angel-forms to her,

Their radiant forms and raiment white,

If dead within a sepulchre

He lay, Himself the Life and Light?

Thus when the bridge of faith was rent,.

Which could have firmly spanned the gulf, Love prostrate o'er the chasm leant,

And bridged the dark abyss herself.



'Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself and saith unto Him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master."

MOMENT since, a sepulchre

Was all the world she cared to own,
An empty tomb, vain balms and myrrh,
Tears with no heart to shed them on.

And now the living Lord was there,
Immortal, glorious, yet the same;

The voice the fiends once fled in fear
Now spoke the old familiar name.

No language could that bliss have told,
She had no words the joy to greet;

She said but "Master!" as of old,
And rested silent at His feet.

Yet all heaven's choirs could scarcely twine
A music more profound and sweet

Than when, as from His heart to thine,
Thus "Mary!" and "Rabboni!" meet.


"Go quickly and tell His disciples that He is risen."

Slj^lELL all the world the Lord is risen — ja fftl The Easter message, ever new;

The grave is hut a ruined prison, Invincible, the Life breaks through.

Earth cannot long ensepulchre

In her dark depths the tiniest seed;

When life begins to throb and stir,
The bands of death are weak indeed.

No clods its upward course deter,
Calmly it makes its path to day;

One germ of life is mightier
Than a whole universe of clay.

Yet not one leaf-blade ever stirred,

Bursting earth's wintry dungeons dim,

But lived at His creative word,
Responsive to the life in Him.

Since, then, the life that He bestows
Thus triumphs over death and earth;

What power of earth or death can close
The Fountain whence all life has birth?

And, as the least up-springing grain
Breathes still the resurrection song,

That light the victory shall gain,

That death is weak, and life is strong;

So, with immortal vigour rife,

The lowliest life that faith has freed

Bears witness still that Christ is life,
And that the Life is risen indeed.

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