At  length  the  worst  is  o'er,  and  Thou  art  laid

Deep  in  Thy  darksome  bed  ;
All  still  and  cold  beneath  yon  dreary  stone

Thy  sacred  form  is  gone  ;
Around  those  hps  where  power  and  mercy  hung,

The  dews  of  death  have  clung ;
The  dull  earth  o'er  Thee,  and  Thy  foes  aroimd.
Thou  sleep'st  a  silent  corse,  in  funeral  fetters  wound.
Sleep'st  Thou  indeed  ?  or  is  Thy  spirit  fled,

At  large  among  the  dead  ?  lo

Whether  in  Eden  bowers  Thy  welcome  voice
Wake  Abraham  to  rejoice.
EASTER  EVE  71

Or  in  some  drearier  scene  Thine  eye  controls

The  thronging  band  of  souls  ;
That,  as  Thy  blood  won  earth,  Thine  .agony
Might  set  the  shadoAvy  realm  from  sin  and  sorrow  free.
Where'er  Thou  roam'st,  one  happy  soul,  we  know.
Seen  at  Thy  side  in  woe,i
Waits  on  Thy  triumph — even  as  all  the  blest

With  him  and  Thee  shall  rest.  20

Each  on  his  cross,  by  Thee  we  hang  a  while,

Watching  Thy  patient  smile.
Till  we  have  learn'd  to  say,  "  'Tis  justly  done,
■  Only  in  glory,  Lord,  Thy  sinful  servant  own."

Soon  wilt  Thou  take  us  to  Thy  tranquil  bower

To  rest  one  little  hour.
Till  Thine  elect  are  number'd,  and  the  grave

Call  Thee  to  come  and  save  :
Then  on  Thy  bosom  borne  shall  we  descend

Again  with  earth  to  blend,  30

Earth  all  refin'd  with  bright  supernal  fires,
Tinctur'd   with   holy   blood,    and   wing'd   with   pure
desires.
