Classic Poem

“He died,” saith the cross, “my very name”
Was a hated thing and a word of shame;
But since Christ hung on my arms out-spread,
With nails in His hands and thorns on His head,

They do but measure—set high, flung wide—
The measureless love of the Crucified.”
“He rose,” said the tomb, “I was dark and drear,
And the sound of my name wove a spell of fear;

But the Lord of Life in my depths hath lain
To break Death's power and rend his chain;
And a light streams forth from my open door,
For the Lord is risen; He dies no more.”