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!