E’en through the sorrow of Gethsemani,
Though oft I wept such infinite love to grieve.
And seemed thy human life to mine so near
That ever shadowed all my joy the fear
The end must come, and thou that life must leave.
To-day with Magdalen I weep once more—
My Lord is risen and my life’s love lost.
O silly soul, on sorrow’s ocean tossed,
Does he not tell thee, as to her before,
“Be not afraid”?—to thee is he less near?