Easter Even
by Margaret French Patton
Our dear Lord now is taken from the cross,
His bruised body wrapped in linen cool.
And laid by loving hands in Joseph's tomb;
Outraged Nature bows her head and sleeps;
The guard is set; Jerusalem is still.
Ye sleeping buds, break
Open your green cerements, and wake
To fragrant blossoming for His sweet sake;
To-morrow will be Easter day,
And I would have my garden gay
On Easter day.
Ye home-bound birds, take
Swift-winged flight, that from my budding brake
Your joyful hallelujahs ye may make;
To-morrow will be Easter day.
And I would have my garden gay
On Easter day.
Ye strolling winds, shake
Out your drooping sails, and heavenward take
The songs and sweet aromas for His sake;
To-morrow will be Easter day.
And I would have my garden gay
On Easter day.
Early in the morning while 'tis dark,
Like Mary Magdalen, with spices rare,
I, too, shall hasten to my garden fair
To seek, our risen Lord. Who knows? For love
Of birds and buds He may be walking there.
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