Do saints keep holy clay in heavenly places?
Does the old joy shine new in angel faces?
Are hymns still sung the night when Christ was born,
And anthems on the Resurrection Morn?
Because our little year of earth is run,
Do they make record there beyond the sun?
And in their homes of light, so far away,
Mark with us the sweet coming of this day?
What is their Easter? For they have no graves;
No shadow there the holy sunrise craves,—
Deep in the heart of noontide marvellous,
Whose breaking glory reaches down to us.
