Golgotha

He breathed his last, –
And died.
And the beat of the rain came hard and fast,
And the lightnings writhed in the sudden blast,
And the fierce winds cried.

Is he then dead?
But no –
For, “In him was life,” the beloved said,
And then, “Before Abraham”
(So his own words rang out long ago),
“I Am.”

But there he hangs –
Ah! red
And bloody his lifeless, ghastly form,
And the legions of darkness around him swarm,
And they gnash on him with their death-glutting fangs,
And he is dead.

But what is this – what stir, what rush?
In the pounding rain,
The rocks are split, the very heavens blush,
The temple-veil drops powerless, rent in twain –
And look! from their graves the godly slain
Come out, to live again.

Yes, “It is done!”
And after the storm, a breath
Kisses to life, while the demons still howl on.
His death is the death of death.
The minions of hell, that shrieked in horrid glee,
Now lift their voices in hopeless moans,
And, terror-stricken, flee.
And Sunday dawns.