Come forth with twice-an­oint­ed feet,
And head that waits a se­cond crown,
Thou art more liv­ing than the love
Of those who gent­ly laid Thee down!
Pain is their life, Thy grave their cross,
They grieve, they sigh, they faint for Thee;
Come forth, and make time’s bit­ter­est loss
The joy of their eter­ni­ty.

Sinner and saint have loved Thee well;
With oint­ment pure and pur­er yet
They have an­oint­ed Thee, Thy feet
With hea­vi­est rain of tears were wet;
The sin­ner wept away her sins,
The saint held cheap her cost­ly gift;
Arise, Thou lov­er of both, and each
To Heav’n and high­er Hea­ven lift.

Crowned but with thorns, Thy ti­mid friends
Who found Thee where to lay Thy head,
From sec­ret in­to op­en love
Arose at once when Thou wert dead;
With blood-an­oint­ed brow come forth,
And wear Thy shin­ing se­cond crown;
Then in­to gen­tle­ness shall rise
The world that rough­ly cast Thee down.