"It is finished."
VII.
O,—light of day, whose now averted face,
As ne'er before, withholds thy cheer from man!—
O,—quaking earth, whose bed of solid rock,
Is shivered by some pang of awful ill!—
O,—graves, once sealed o'er loved ones, laid aside,
To answer only at Archangels' call!—
What tragedy of creation's Master;—
What spell upon creation's normal peace;—