So each night, O faithful heart, Keep thy vigil, draw apart, Dress thy altar fair and fit, Sure the Lord will hallow it! Death in vain forbids Him rise, Sin in vain would bar His way, And, each morrow, in the skies, There shall dawn an Easter day!
THE King is coming! All the road With branches of the palm is strewed; The multitudes are thronging fast To see him as he rideth past. They look for pomp and sovereignty, Purple and gold and crown to see, They bring the sick, the halt, the dumb. The King is coming! Let him come.
The Christ is coming! Coarsely dressed With sandalled feet and fisher’s vest, His steed the lowly ass’s foal, His crown the viewless aureole; No sword, no seal, no royal cloak; Twelve tired and dusty working folk Make of his court the tale and sum. The Christ is coming! Let him come.
The King is coming! Every year He comes for hearts that hold him dear, Borne in as on that by-gone day With palm-boughs strewed along his way, No longer clad in lowly guise, But King of Kings to faithful eyes. To every heart that gives him room The Lord of Love vouchsafes to come.
The Christ is coming! Heart of mine, What fitting gift, of love the sign, Hast thou to lay as offering Upon the pathway of the King? No palm-branch hast thou? Nothing meet? Then lay thyself before his feet. His smile can make thy dryness bloom. The Christ is coming! Let him come!
IN travelling guise they held the Paschal Feast In olden days. With loins girt about, and shoes on feet, And staves in hand, they met and shared the meat, And gave God praise.
No lingering at the banquet; each man took His portion due, And swiftly hied him forth, even as did His fathers, worn slaves of the pyramid, Zion in view.
A single morsel might suffice for some, Snatched as they went; On promise and on type their souls were fed, So, though their bodies lacked a little bread, They were content.
And even thus, my soul, be it with thee, This Easter Day. With loins girt about, and staff in hand, As one made ready for the Promised Land, Who may not stay;
Come, then. The feast is spread which angels still Desire to taste; Take thou thy crumb, nor wait for farther good, To bask and batten on immortal food, But rise in haste;