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VIII. A SONNET FOR THE TIMES
What! weeping? Had ye your Christ yesterday,
Close wound in linen, made your own by tears,
Kisses, and pounds of myrrh, the sepulchre's
Mere stone most venerable? And now ye say
“No man hath seen Him, He is borne away
We wot not where.” And so, with many a sigh,
Watching the linen clothes and napkin lie,
Ye choose about the grave's sad mouth to stay.
Blind hearts! Why seek the living amongst the dead?
Better than carols for the babe new-born
The shining young men's speech “He is not here;”
Why question where the feet lay, where the head?
Come forth; bright o'er the world breaks Easter morn,
He is arisen, Victor o'er grief and fear.
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