We wait beside the tomb
For some great angel to roll back the stone:
Will our slain hope ascend to heaven’s throne?
He will not come.
Our hearts have prayed in vain:
The nail-scarred spear-pierced body will not rise
To rescue us. A ludicrous surmise!
Still, we remain.
United in our grief,
We huddle and cringe in the fierce desert wind:
But somewhere, though the bloody world has sinned,
Trees are in leaf
And from the chilly earth
Flowers begin to sprout. The April sun
Embraces feeble life, and birds again
Sing of rebirth.
But what is their blithe song
To us, who have lost our passionate lord of love?
Can we expect salvation from above?
That would be wrong.