Our graves lie closed this Easter day,
But from their rugged sod
The sweet spring grass comes softly up
With messages from God.
'But ah!' men wail, in dreary doubt,
'In autumn this will die;
All nature has no type to tell
Peace! she has types for ever fresh,
For griefs for ever new.
A type which lived from age to age,
Could be no type for you.
And, haply, in this rise and fall,
Which still in beauty grow,
There lurks a truth that men may guess,
And endless life may show.
We do not fear when winter comes,
We know the spring will wake;
We gladly rest when night draws on,
We know the dawn will break.
And what if in those cycles vast,
Whose limits none may scan,
Even death may hold a happy place,
Part of the life of man?
And still, as we sit sad and lone,
In Time's too narrow prison,
The angels' song goes ringing on,
Which says that Christ is risen.
Dumb mother nature makes her signs,
But from our Father's love
Comes forth the word of Him who died,
And lives again above.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.