Scripture Verse

When they found not His body, they came, saying, that they had also seen a vision of angels, which said that He was alive. Luke 24:23


Charles Wesley (1707–1788)

Words: Charles Wes­ley, Hymns for Our Lord’s Res­ur­rec­tion (Lon­don: Will­iam Stra­han, 1746), num­ber 1.

Music: Ab­schied Wen­zel Mül­ler, 1828 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Wenzel Müller (1767–1835)


The Holy Women at the Tomb
William Bouguereau (1825–1905)

All ye that seek the Lord who died,
Your God for sin­ners cru­ci­fied,
Prevent the ear­li­est dawn, and come
To wor­ship at His sac­red tomb.

Bring the sweet spic­es of your sighs,
Your con­trite hearts, and stream­ing eyes,
Your sad com­plaints, and hum­ble fears;
Come, and em­balm Him with your tears.

While thus ye love your souls t’em­ploy,
Your sor­row shall be turned to joy:
Now, let all your grief be o’er!
Believe, and ye shall weep no more.

An earth­quake hath the ca­vern shook,
And burst the door, and rent the rock;
The Lord hath sent His an­gel down,
And he hath rolled away the stone.

As snow be­hold his gar­ment white,
His coun­te­nance as lightn­ing bright:
He sits, and waves a flam­ing sword,
And waits up­on his ris­ing Lord.

The third aus­pi­cious morn is come,
And calls your Sav­ior from the tomb,
The bands of death are torn away,
The yawn­ing tomb gives back its prey.

Could nei­ther seal nor stone se­cure,
Nor men, nor dev­ils make it sure?
The seal is broke, the stone cast by,
And all the pow­ers of dark­ness fly.

The bo­dy breathes, and lifts His head,
The keep­ers sink, and fall as dead;
The dead re­stored to life ap­pear,
The liv­ing quake, and die for fear.

No pow­er a band of sol­diers have
To keep one bo­dy in its grave:
Surely it no dead bo­dy was
That could the Ro­man ea­gles chase.

The Lord of Life is ris­en in­deed,
To death de­liv­ered in your stead;
His rise pro­claims your sins for­giv’n,
And show the liv­ing way to Heav’n.

Haste then, ye souls that first be­lieve,
Who dare the Gos­pel-Word re­ceive,
Your faith with joy­ful hearts con­fess,
Be bold, be Je­sus’ wit­ness­es.

Go tell the fol­low­ers of your Lord
Their Je­sus is to life re­stored;
He lives, that they His life may find;
He lives, to quick­en all man­kind.

The Garden of the Sepulcher

It was a night of calls and far re­plies,
A night of trem­bling for that Ser­pent head
In gulfs that were be­fore the eld­est dead—
A night of whis­per­ing haste along the skies,
Prayer, and a won­der­ing down of se­raph eyes;
While stilled Je­ru­sa­lem, washed in the moon’s light,
Lay like a brood of se­pul­chers, ghost-white.

The dark was dy­ing sil­ver­ly, that strange,
Still hour when Earth is fall­ing to­ward the day—
That hour of spa­cious si­lence and de­lay
When all things pose upon the hinge of change.
The guards­men had grown si­lent on their round,
Their fire was sink­ing, when a crash of sound—
Darkness—a reel of Earth—a rush of light—
Cleft rocks—then scent of al­oes on the night!

Their fac­es turned to fac­es of the dead,
Their spears fell cla­mor­ing ter­ri­bly as they fled.
And He stood ris­en in the guard­ed place,
With em­pire in His ges­ture—on His face
The hush of mut­ed mu­sic and the might
That drew the stars down on the an­cient night.

Tall in the first-light, mys­tic­al and pale,
He stood as one who dares and can­not fail,
As some high con­script of the Bright Abodes,
As one still called to tra­vel on the wild roads
In Love’s di­vine ad­ven­ture—His white face
Hushed with he­ro­ic pur­pose for the race;
Yet wist­ful of the men who should de­ny Him,
And wist­ful of the years that should be­lie Him.

With peace of heart the blind world could not break,
He took a path the young leaves keep awake.
Glad of the day come back and lov­ing all,
He passed across the morn­ing, felt the cool,
Sweet, kind­ling air blown up­ward from the pool
A burn­ing bush was red­den­ing by the wall;
An ole­an­der bough was full of stirs,
Struck by the robes of un­seen mes­sen­gers.

The hills broke purp­ling, as the sun’s bright edge
Pushed slow­ly up be­hind a roc­ky ledge:
The hov­er­ing dome of the Tem­ple, gray and cold,
Burned out with sud­den, un­ex­pect­ed gold.
A light wind sil­vered up the ol­ive slope,
And all the world was won­der and wild hope!

Edwin Markham
The Shoes of Hap­pi­ness and Oth­er Po­ems, 1921