O Soul! rememberest thou how Mary went
In the gray dawn to weep beside the tomb
Where one she loved lay buried? Through the gloom,
Pallid with pain, and with long anguish spent,
Still pressed she on with solemn, high intent,
Bearing her costly gifts of rare perfume
And spices odorous with eastern bloom,
Unto the Master’s sepulchre! But rent
Was the great stone from its low door away;
And when she stooped to peer with startled eyes
Into the dark where slept the pallid clay,
Lo, it was gone! And there in heavenly guise,
So grandly calm, so fair in morn’s first ray,
She found an angel from the upper skies!