University of Virginia Library

'Twas early morn, and dawning day
Had scarcely yet begun to shine,
Although a faintly struggling ray
Had marked the dim horizon's line,
When through the still remaining gloom
A female form was seen to stray:
She sought alone her Saviour's tomb—
She went to weep where Jesus lay.
With huried step, and look forlorn,
Along the garden path she moved,
Where late in silent grief was borne
That Master she so dearly loved.
With spices and with myrrh she came,
His sacred body to embalm;
And once again to name his name
In sorrow's sad and sick'ning qualm:
But lo! the tomb was burst!—the stone
Which barr'd its gate was backward roll'd;
The great—the glorious Dead, was gone!
Of him, the grave had lost its hold.
A moment, with suspended breath,
That faithful mourner stood to gaze
Upon the late abode of death
Thrown open to the morning rays;
Then hurriedly she went to call
Her Saviour's followers, to explore
That empty cave, and corseless pall,
Where his remains were found no more.
They came and found his funeral dress
Along the cold sepulchre strown,
But, with unspeakable distress,
They saw not him, for he was gone.
Their souls were dark, their faith was weak:
They dream'd not that their Lord could rise
To burst the bands of death, and break
Through all a passage to the skies!
And soon the sad disciples left
That melancholy spot, to mourn
Their loss—of Him they loved bereft:
They knew not that he should return.
But she who first appeared there,
Lingering—her soul's deep anguish pour'd
Before the ransack'd sepulchre
Which lately held her blessed Lord.
And down upon her knees she bent,
And turned within her streaming eyes
To give her yearning heart full vent,
When lo! a vision from the skies
Astonished her bewilder'd sight!
She saw two forms, whose garments shone,
Like sun-illumined snow—so bright
They scarcely could be look'd upon:
Yet mild were their majestic faces,
And mild their eyes of heavenly blue,
Which beam'd with more than mortal graces—
Dazzling, yet fascinating too;
And when they sweetly smiled and spoke,
And ask'd the cause of Mary's tears,
Their words, like heavenly music, broke
From the dim cavern on her ears.
Abash'd by such dread charms, she turn'd
Aside her sad and drooping head;
But still her heart in sorrow yearn'd
To know where she might find the dead.

She turn'd her round: who meets she there?
Beaming with looks of tenderness,
An eye more bright, a face more fair
Than those she left within, were His!
Yet seemed He mortal—for His hand
Displayed a deep impurpled wound;
And sure in heaven's eternal band
No semblance of a scar is found.
But never mortal form before
Seem'd half so glorious to her eye
As His whose brow so kindly wore
Compassion with its majesty.
He saw her weep, and question'd why,
But she mistook his words—though clear—
And answered, with a burning sigh,
“I seek for one who is not here.
Rabboni, pray thee, tell me where
The body of the Lord is laid,
That I may to the spot repair,
And weep once more above the dead!”
“Mary!”—He said: that tender tone
In one short moment brought to mind
A friend whom she before had known—
A friend benevolent and kind;
And in her gladness at the sight,
Her risen Saviour she had press'd:
Then stooping down, in humble plight,
His very feet with rapture kiss'd.
But he forbade that fond embrace,
Yet offer'd no austere rebuke;
For mercy mantled o'er his face,
And mercy beam'd in every look.
“Touch me not yet,” he said; “but bend
Thy steps to where my brethren pine;
Say that their Lord shall soon ascend
Up to their Father, and to mine.”

The Saviour, robed in rays of light,
Vanished from her still longing eyes;
And Mary, fluttering with delight,
Went forth his followers to surprise.

Yet once again from heaven he came,
That mourning brotherhood to bless,
Who, reckless of contempt and shame,
Had followed him in faithfulness.
Still, of the Twelve, one had not seen
His Saviour since from death he rose;
For he before had absent been
And doubts and fears still round him close.
And yet once more when silent night
Hung heavy o'er the slumbering land,
That Saviour burst upon their sight,
And show'd his perforated hand,
And pointed to his pierced side,
That all their doubts, and all their fears,
For ever might be satisfied—
And cheer'd their hearts, and dried their tears.

He open'd, with his dying breath,
A fountain, sinful souls to lave;
He rose and took the sting from death,
And wrench'd the terrors from the grave.
And when at last, 'mid falling stars,
And suns and moons through darkness driven,
With angel hosts, on fiery cars,
He comes from the high gates of heaven—
When all the generations gone,
At the archangel's voice appear,
And, ranged around his Judgment Throne,
Stand tremblingly their doom to hear,
Who shall not quake with fear to see
Creation's mighty fabric shake
Before that Man of Galilee
Who suffer'd once for sinners' sake?