I SLEPT , but my heart was waking,
 And out in my dreams I sped,
Through the streets of an ancient city,
 Where Jesus, the Lord, lay dead.

He was lying all cold and lowly,
 And the sepulchre was sealed,
And the women that bore the spices
 Had come from the holy field.

There is feasting in Pilate's palace,
 There is revel in Herod's hall,
Where the lute and the sounding instrument
 To mirth and merriment call.

“I have washed my hands,” said Pilate,
 “And what is the Jew to me?”
“I have missed my chance,” said Herod,
 “One of his wonders to see.

“But why should our courtly circle
 To the thought give further place?
All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty,
 Bid the dancers' feet efface.”
. . . . . . . . .

I saw a light from a casement,
 And entered a lowly door,
Where a woman, stricken and mournful,
 Sat in sackcloth on the floor.

There Mary, the mother of Jesus,
 And John, the belovèd one,
With a few poor friends beside them,
 Were mourning for Him that was gone.

And before the mother was lying
 That crown of cruel thorn,
Wherewith they crowned that gentle brow
 In mockery that morn.

And her ears yet ring with the anguish
 Of that last dying cry,—
That mighty appeal of agony
 That shook both earth and sky.

O God, what a shaft of anguish
 Was that dying voice from the tree!—
From Him the only spotless,—
 “Why hast Thou forsaken me?”

And was he of God forsaken?
 They ask, appalled with dread;
Is evil crowned and triumphant,
 And goodness vanquished and dead?

Is there, then, no God in Jacob?
 Is the star of Judah dim?
For who would our God deliver,
 If he would not deliver him?

If God could not deliver,—what hope then?
 If he would not,—who ever shall dare
To be firm in his service hereafter?
 To trust in his wisdom or care?

So darkly the Tempter was saying,
 To hearts that with sorrow were dumb;
And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to God,
 With hands that with anguish were numb.
. . . . . . . .

In my dreams came the third day morning,
 And fairly the day-star shone;
But fairer, the solemn angel,
 As he rolled away the stone.

In the lowly dwelling of Mary,
 In the dusky twilight chill,
There was heard the sound of coming feet,
 And her very heart grew still.

And in the glimmer of dawning,
 She saw him enter the door,
Her Son, all living and real,
 Risen, to die no more!

Her Son, all living and real,
 Risen no more to die,—
With the power of an endless life in his face,
 With the light of heaven in his eye.

O mourning mothers, so many,
 Weeping o'er sons that are dead,
Have ye thought of the sorrows of Mary's heart,
 Of the tears that Mary shed?

Is the crown of thorns before you?
 Are there memories of cruel scorn?
Of hunger and thirst and bitter cold
 That your belovèd have borne?

Had ye ever a son like Jesus
 To give to a death of pain?
Did ever a son so cruelly die,
 But did he die in vain?

Have ye ever thought that all the hopes
 That make our earth-life fair,
Were born in those three bitter days
 Of Mary's deep despair?

O mourning mothers, so many,
 Weeping in woe and pain,
Think on the joy of Mary's heart
 In a Son that is risen again.

Have faith in a third-day morning,
 In a resurrection-hour;
For what ye sow in weakness,
 He can raise again in power.

Have faith in the Lord of that thorny crown,
 In the Lord of the piercèd hand;
For he reigneth now o'er earth and heaven,
 And his power who may withstand?

And the hopes that never on earth shall bloom,
 The sorrows forever new,
Lay silently down at the feet of Him
 Who died and is risen for you.