O Sad-Faced Mourners

O sad-faced mourn­ers

who each day are wend­ing

Through church­yard paths of cyp­ress and of yew

Leave

for to­day

the low graves you are tend­ing

And lift your eyes to God’s eter­nal blue!

Leave

for to­day

all mur­mur­ing and sad­ness;

Twine Eas­ter li­lies

and not as­pho­dels;

Let your souls an­swer to the thrill of glad­ness

And to the me­lo­dy of Eas­ter bells.

If Christ were still with­in the gra­ve’s low prison—

A cap­tive to the ene­my you dread;

If from that moul­der­ing cell He had not ris­en

Who then could chide the bit­ter tears you shed?

Poor hearts! the but­ter­fly

with pin­ions gold­en

Spurns that gray cell which once its free­dom barred;

And the freed soul

with wings no long­er hold­en

Smiles back on life as on a brok­en shard.

If Christ were dead

you would have need to sor­row;

But He has ris­en

and con­quered death for aye!

So dry your tears

if on­ly till the mor­row;

Arise

and give your grief a ho­li­day!