Weep not beside the tomb, Ye women, unto whom He was great solace while ye tended Him; Ye who with napkin o’er the head And folds of linen round each wounded limb Laid out the Sacred Dead; And thou that bar’st Him in thy wondering womb; Yea, Daughters of Jerusalem, depart, Bind up as best ye may your own sad bleeding heart; Go to your homes, your living children tend, Your earthly spouses love; Set your affections _not_ on things above, Which moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest come to end: Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can, For death; since dead is He whom ye deemed more than man, Who is not risen: no— But lies and moulders low— Who is not risen! Ye men of Galilee! Why stand ye looking up to heaven, where Him ye ne’er may see, Neither ascending hence, nor returning hither again? Ye ignorant and idle fishermen! Hence to your huts, and boats, and inland native shore, And catch not men, but fish; Whate’er things ye might wish, Him neither here nor there ye e’er shall meet with more. Ye poor deluded youths, go home, Mend the old nets ye left to roam, Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail: It was indeed an ‘idle tale’— He was not risen! And, oh, good men of ages yet to be, Who shall believe _because_ ye did not see— Oh, be ye warned, be wise! No more with pleading eyes, And sobs of strong desire, Unto the empty vacant void aspire, Seeking another and impossible birth That is not of your own, and only mother earth. But if there is no other life for you, Sit down and be content, since this must even do: He is not risen! One look, and then depart, Ye humble and ye holy men of heart; And ye! ye ministers and stewards of a Word Which ye would preach, because another heard— Ye worshippers of that ye do not know, Take these things hence and go:— He is not risen! Here, on our Easter Day We rise, we come, and lo! we find Him not, Gardener nor other, on the sacred spot: Where they have laid Him there is none to say; No sound, nor in, nor out—no word Of where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord. There is no glistering of an angel’s wings, There is no voice of heavenly clear behest: Let us go hence, and think upon these things In silence, which is best. Is He not risen? No— But lies and moulders low? Christ is not risen? _EASTER DAY._ II