Easter

When it was dark, ah! that was long ago,When grief and sorrow sore oppressed the heart,And night did seem as if it ne'er would end,With willing hands they made the ointment rare,Prepared the fragrant spices sweet and pure,Their service last to him they mourned as dead;Then patiently they waited for the dawn.

At last it came, faint herald of the day;Though all around about them yet was dark,They ventured forth, and slowly went their wayUnto the grave they thought could hold their Lord.Then someone whispered, one of fearful heart:What of the heavy stone that bars the door?No strength have we to roll that rock away.

April 15, 1933
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