If God could not deliver,—what hope then?
If he would not,—who ever shall dare
To be firm in his service hereafter?
To trust in his wisdom or care?
So darkly the Tempter was saying,
To hearts that with sorrow were dumb;
And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to God,
With hands that with anguish were numb.
. . . . . . . .
In my dreams came the third day morning,
And fairly the day-star shone;
But fairer, the solemn angel,
As he rolled away the stone.
In the lowly dwelling of Mary,
In the dusky twilight chill,
There was heard the sound of coming feet,
And her very heart grew still.
And in the glimmer of dawning,
She saw him enter the door,
Her Son, all living and real,
Risen, to die no more!
Her Son, all living and real,
Risen no more to die,—
With the power of an endless life in his face,
With the light of heaven in his eye.
O mourning mothers, so many,
Weeping o'er sons that are dead,
Have ye thought of the sorrows of Mary's heart,
Of the tears that Mary shed?
Is the crown of thorns before you?
Are there memories of cruel scorn?
Of hunger and thirst and bitter cold
That your belovèd have borne?
Had ye ever a son like Jesus
To give to a death of pain?
Did ever a son so cruelly die,
But did he die in vain?