Easter Day
Oh, day of days! Shall hearts
set free
No "minstrel rapture" find for thee?
Thou art the sun of other days.
They shine by giving back thy rays.
Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere,
Thou shedd'st the 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 fullness of thy blessing gain
Till all, both resting and 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 blessed day.
Or, if she thinks, 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 the
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."
Yet even the lifeless stone is dear
For thoughts of him who late lay
here,
And the base world, now Christ hath
died,
Ennobled is the glorified.
No more a charnel house, to fence
The relics of lost innocence,
A vault of ruin and decay--
The imprisoning stone is rolled
away.
'Tis now a cell, where angels use
To come and go with heavenly news
And in the ears of mourners say,
"Come, see the place where Jesus
lay,"
'Tis now a fane, where love can find
Christ everywhere embalmed and shrined--
Aye gathering up memorials sweet
Where'er she sets her duteous feet.
by John Keble.
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