Easter-Friday, 1883

O year gone down into the sullen past,
Relentless year that hast no tidings brought
Of him who suddenly from earth was caught
And lifted higher while our tears fell fast;
Thou canst not triumph over us at last,
Because thy silence so with grief is fraught
That joy is weighted with a mournful thought
When at this Easter eyes are backward cast;

For, past all doubting, well each heart doth know,
Howe'er it fare with us whose heavy load
Each moment lends its petty might to swell,
With him no longer sorrow makes abode,
But peace and rest abide, and never go;
And with his noble soul it now is well!