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.