She stood before the empty tomb,
Wond’ring and half afraid,
And peered into the clinging gloom
Where he was lately laid.
Only the linen cloths were there,
But something like a breath
Whispered across the morning air
And said: “There is no death.”
Across the troubled centuries
That word has made its way,
And like a fragrant summer breeze
It comes to us to-day.
Where’er our hands have reared a stone,
Now as of old it saith
To those who come to grieve alone:
“Take heart. There is no death.”