The Descent from the Cross

Six wea­ry hours ex­tend­ed

Upon the cross of pain

When will the day be end­ed

Night’s sha­dows come again?

Would morn were eve’s de­clin­ing

Would God that eve were morn

His eve of life’s re­sign­ing

His re­sur­rect­ion dawn!

Thrice now the con­gre­ga­tion

Has climbed the steep to pray­er

It is the Pre­pa­ra­tion

And yet He wi­thers there:

They say the cross dis­sem­bles

The spir­it’s part­ing strife;

And day by day still trem­bles

The hi­de­ous wreck of life.

Haste

Jo­seph

It is fin­ished

The sun sinks on the wave;

The time must needs be min­ished

The three days of the grave:

An eve with­out a morn­ing

Of black­est mid­night born;

The Sab­bath past

His dawn­ing

Is ev­er­last­ing morn.

Blest se­pul­cher

where nev­er

Man’s mor­tal form was laid;

The on­ly tomb for ev­er

With an­gel light ar­rayed;

Life’s on­ly

last

de­fend­er—

When graves shall be no more

No earth hast thou to ren­der

No trea­sure to re­store.