An Easter Ode. Poem by Henry Alford

The calm of blessed Night
Is on Judaea's hills;
The full--orbed moon with cloudless light
Is sparkling on their rills:
One spot above the rest
Is still and tranquil seen,
The chamber as of something blest,
Amidst its bowers of green.

Around that spot each way
The figures ye may trace
Of men--at--arms in grim array,
Guarding the solemn place:
But other bands are there--
And, glistening through the gloom,
Legions of angels bright and fair
Throng to that wondrous tomb.

``Praise be to God on high!
The triumph hour is near;
The Lord hath won the victory,
The foe is vanquished here!
Dark Grave, yield up the dead;
Give up thy prey, thou Earth;
In death He bowed His sacred head,--
He springs anew to birth!

``Sharp was the wreath of thorns
Around His suffering brow;
But glory rich His head adorns,
And Angels crown Him now.

Roll yonder rock away
That bars the marble gate;
And gather we in bright array
To swell the Victor's state!''

``Hail, hail, hail!
The Lord is risen indeed!
The curse is made of none avail;
The sons of men are freed!''