John Oxenham

Easter Sunday, 1916

   The sun shone white and fair,
   This Eastertide,
   Yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride
   Our souls’ despair;
   For stricken hearts, and loss and pain,
   Were everywhere.
   We sang our Alleluias,—
   We said, “The Christ is risen!
                   From this His earthly prison,
                   The Christ indeed is risen.
                   He is gone up on high,
                   To the perfect peace of heaven.”
 
   Then, with a sigh,
   We wondered...
   Our minds evolved grim hordes of huns,
   Our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns,
   On our very souls they thundered.
   Can you wonder?—Can you wonder,
   That we wondered,
   As we heard the huns’ guns thunder?
   That we looked in one another’s eyes
   And wondered,—
 
   “Is Christ indeed then risen from the dead?
   Hath He not rather fled
   For ever from a world where He
   Meets such contumely?”
 
   Our hearts were sick with pain,
   As they beat the sad refrain,—
   “How shall the Lord Christ come again?
   How can the Lord Christ come again?
   Nay,—will He come again?
   Is He not surely fled
   For ever from a world where He
   Is still so buffeted?”
 
   But the day’s glory all forbade
   Such depth of woe.    Came to our aid
   The sun, the birds, the springing things,
   The winging things, the singing things;
   And taught us this,—
   After each Winter cometh Spring,—
   God’s hand is still in everything,—
   His mighty purposes are sure,—
   His endless love doth still endure,
   And will not cease, nor know remiss,
   Despite man’s forfeiture.
 
   The Lord is risen indeed!
   In very truth and deed
   The Lord is risen, is risen, is risen;
   He will supply our need.
 
   So we took heart again,
   And built us refuges from pain
   Within His coverture,—
   Strong towers of Love, and Hope, and Faith,
   That shall maintain
   Our souls’ estate
   Too high and great
   For even Death to violate.
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