Classic Poem

He liveth, who was dead:
The bars of hell are riven:
The gloom of centuries is fled,
The light hath dawn'd from heaven.

Among His own He stands,
Oh why those faithless fears?
He shows His side and feet and hands,
And dries the fount of tears.

Peace, blessèd peace, first sung
By angels at His birth,
Now drops melodious from His tongue,
Like balm for all the earth.

He clothes them with the power
Of His forgiving love,
As clothed at His baptismal hour
With unction of the Dove.

The Light hath burst its prison
And shines Creation o'er:
The Everlasting Life hath risen,
And risen to die no more.