Classic Poem

No angel comes to us to tell
Glad news of our beloved dead;
Nor at the old familiar board,
They sit among us, breaking bread.

Three days we wait before the tomb,
Nay, life-long years; and yet no more,
For all our passionate tears, we find
The stone rolled backward from the door.

Yet are they risen as He is risen;
For no eternal loss we grieve.
Blessed are they who ask no sign,
And, never having seen, believe.