Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine Along the glorious line, Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet We’ll hold communion sweet, Know them by look and voice, and thank them all For helping us in thrall, For words of hope, and bright examples given To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven. O come that day, when in this restless heart Earth shall resign her part, When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest, My soul with Thee be blest! But stay, presumptuous—CHRIST with Thee abides In the rock’s dreary sides: He from this stone will wring Celestial dew If but this prisoner’s heart he faithful found and true. When tears are spent, and then art left alone With ghosts of blessings gone, Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid In JESUS’ burial shade; Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and call Out of the rocky wall The fount of holy blood; and lift on high Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry. Prisoner of Hope thou art—look up and sing In hope of promised spring. As in the pit his father’s darling lay Beside the desert way, And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save E’en from that living grave, So, buried with our LORD, we’ll chose our eyes To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise. Easter Day. And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen. _St. Luke_ xxiv. 5, 6. OH! day of days! shall hearts set free No “minstrel rapture” find for thee? Thou art this Sun of other days, They shine by giving back thy rays: Enthronèd in thy sovereign sphere, Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year; Sundays by thee more glorious break, An Easter Day in every week: And week days, following in their train, The fulness of thy blessing gain, Till all, both resting soil employ, Be one Lord’s day of holy joy. Then wake, my soul, to high desires, And earlier light thine altar fires: The World some hours is on her way, Nor thinks on thee, thou blessèd day: Or, if she think, it is in scorn: The vernal light of Easter morn To her dark gaze no brighter seems Than Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams. “Where is your Lord?” she scornful asks: “Where is His hire? we know his tasks; Sons of a King ye boast to be: Let us your crowns and treasures see.” We in the words of Truth reply, (An angel brought them from this sky,) “Our crown, our treasure is not here, ’Tis stored above the highest sphere: “Methinks your wisdom guides amiss, To seek on earth a Christian’s bliss; We watch not now the lifeless stone; Our only Lord is risen and gone.”