When the sixth hour was come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour.@Mark 15:33

Herbert Kynaston, Occasional Hymns (London: R. Clay, Son, & Taylor, 1862), pages 88-89. Ce tombeau, le seul qui n’aura rien à rendre au dernier jour. Chateaubriand, Mémoires D’Outre-Tombe. Tome 3me, p. 70.

Monsell John S. B. Monsell, 1863 (🔊 pdf nwc).

portrait
John S. B. Monsell (1811-1875)

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.