Charles Hanson Towne
An Easter Canticle
In every trembling bud and bloom
That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword,
I see Thee come from out the tomb,
Thou risen Lord.
In every April wind that sings
Down lanes that make the heart rejoice;
Yea, in the word the wood-thrush brings,
I hear Thy voice.
Lo! every tulip is a cup
To hold Thy morning's brimming wine;
Drink, O my soul, the wonder up---
Is it not Thine?
The great Lord God, invisible,
Hath roused to rapture the green grass;
Through sunlit mead and dew-drenched dell,
I see Him pass.
His old immortal glory wakes
The rushing streams and emerald hills;
His ancient trumpet softly shakes
Thou art not dead! Thou art the whole
Of life that quickens in the sod;
Green April is Thy very soul,
Thou great Lord God.
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