Альфред Нойес (Alfred Noyes)

Resurrection

Once more I hear the everlasting sea
     Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast,
Come unto Me, come unto Me,
     And I will give you rest.

We have destroyed the Temple and in three days
    He hath rebuilt it — all things are made new:
And hark what wild throats pour His praise
    Beneath the boundless blue.

We plucked down all His altars, cried aloud
    And gashed ourselves for little gods of clay!
Yon floating cloud was but a cloud,
    The May no more than May.
 
We plucked down all His altars, left not one
    Save where, perchance (and ah, the joy was fleet),
We laid our garlands in the sun
    At the white Sea-born's feet.
 
We plucked down all His altars, not to make
    The small praise greater, but the great praise less,
We sealed all fountains where the soul could slake
    Its thirst and weariness.
 
"Love" was too small, too human to be found
    In that transcendent source whence love was born:
We talked of "forces": heaven was crowned
    With philosophic thorn.
 
"Your God is in your image," we cried, but O,
    'Twas only man's own deepest heart ye gave,
Knowing that He transcended all ye know,
    While — we dug His grave.

Denied Him even the crown on our own brow,
    E'en these poor symbols of His loftier reign,
Levelled His Temple with the dust, and now
    He is risen, He is risen again,

Risen, like this resurrection of the year,
    This grand ascension of the choral spring,
Which those harp-crowded heavens bend to hear
    And meet upon the wing.

"He is dead," we cried, and even amid that gloom
    The wintry veil was rent!  The new-born day
Showed us the Angel seated in the tomb
    And the stone rolled away.

It is the hour!  We challenge heaven above
    Now, to deny our slight ephemeral breath
Joy, anguish, and that everlasting love
    Which triumphs over death.

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