When at his feet the spikenard lay,
Came, bringing balm and spice and myrrh;
To her the grave had made reply:
"He is not here--He cannot die."

Praetor and priest in vain conspire,
Jerusalem and Rome in vain
Torture the god with mortal pain,
To quench that seed of living fire;
But light that had in heaven its birth
Can never be put out oh earth.

"I will arise"--across the years,
Even as to Mary that grey morn,
To us that gentle voice is borne--
"I will arise." He that hath ears
O hearken well this mystic word,
Let not the Master speak unheard.

No soul descended deep in hell,
The child of sorrow, sin and death,
The immortal spirit suffereth
To see corruption; though it fell
From loftiest station in the skies,
It still to heaven again must rise.

No dream of faith, no seed of love,
No lonely action nobly done,
But is as stable as the sun,
And fed and watered from above;