Now is the morn of resurrection,
When thought awakes to man's perfection
As Love's dear child,
And human sense, inspired and lifted,
Leaves mortal dreams in which it drifted,
By sleep beguiled.
Such is the power of this glad waking
That its own spiritual force is breaking
The seal of fears.
It frees where there has been confinement
In tombs of hatred's harsh assignment—
And man appears.
Earth, symbolizing this, rejoices
With singing brooks whose sun-thawed voices
Proclaim the spring,
With budding plants, new blooms devising;
With soaring larks, and white doves rising
On joyful wing.
