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,

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,-

EASTER SUNDAY, 1916 (continued)

"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.

EASTER SUNDAY, 1916 (continued)

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.

THE CHILD OF THE MAID

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;-

-To tread the long way, lone and lorn, -To wear the bitter crown of thorn, -To break the heart by man's sins torn, -To die at last the Death of Scorn. For this The Child of The Maid was born, On Christmas Day in the morning.

But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering

The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,—

"My baby, my baby,

My own little son,

Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?

THE CHILD OF THE MAID (continued)

Ah now, unto me all alone

That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?

Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows,

Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.

In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,-
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder. . . I wonder . . .
And-wish-it-were-done!

"O little, little feet, dears,
So curly, curly sweet!-
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work's complete?
O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!-
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!

O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!
O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,