Easter Morning
II.
The sun rose bright on that first Easter mom,
The third, since His disciples, left forlorn,
Had gently laid Him in His sepulchre
All wrapped in snowy linen, sweet with myrrh.
'Twas early, all the world was drenched in dew,
As fresh and fragrant as if born anew,
When Mary Magdalene, with down-bent head,
And sorrowing heart, from which all joy had fled,
With heavy eyes, which never now knew sleep,
Crept to the holy sepulchre to weep.
But as she came, she saw the open door—
The snowy grave-clothes scattered on the floor—
A startled moment her heart ceased to beat,
Then, turning, forth she sped on winged feet,
Affrighted, wondering, her tale to tell
To His own true disciples, loved so well.
But while she wept, and all things dire feared,
A shining Figure, clad in light, appeared
To her, and when He saw she knew Him not,
But stood afraid and trembling on the spot,
With all the old benignant tender grace,
He gazed upon her pale and tear-stained face—
Reached forth the hands, that e'en for her had bled—
She knew Him then, as risen from the dead.
"Mary!" how sweet His voice no tongue can tell—
"Master!" she cried, as at His feet she fell.
The third, since His disciples, left forlorn,
Had gently laid Him in His sepulchre
All wrapped in snowy linen, sweet with myrrh.
'Twas early, all the world was drenched in dew,
As fresh and fragrant as if born anew,
When Mary Magdalene, with down-bent head,
And sorrowing heart, from which all joy had fled,
With heavy eyes, which never now knew sleep,
Crept to the holy sepulchre to weep.
But as she came, she saw the open door—
The snowy grave-clothes scattered on the floor—
A startled moment her heart ceased to beat,
Then, turning, forth she sped on winged feet,
Affrighted, wondering, her tale to tell
To His own true disciples, loved so well.
But while she wept, and all things dire feared,
A shining Figure, clad in light, appeared
To her, and when He saw she knew Him not,
But stood afraid and trembling on the spot,
With all the old benignant tender grace,
He gazed upon her pale and tear-stained face—
Reached forth the hands, that e'en for her had bled—
She knew Him then, as risen from the dead.
"Mary!" how sweet His voice no tongue can tell—
"Master!" she cried, as at His feet she fell.
