Not yet, not yet has He arisen,

The mourning world awaits Him still,

Awhile He keeps His rock-bound prison,

Hard as the iceberg and as chill.

Love's willing prisoner He waits

While men and angels watch the gates.

For all the stone is rolled away,

For all the garden waits the sun;

His Mother for her Star of Day

Still watching while the minutes run,

Cries: Son, wilt Thou not rise? O rise,

My Sun, my Moon of Paradise!

The Friend of sinners, once again

Awhile with sinners He delays;

Not such as loving Magdalen,

Whose lovely eyes are water-ways

To bathe His feet and, having done,

Dry them in cobwebs of the sun.

Cold as the grave the stony heart

Where He comes in and sits at feast.

There's a white table spread apart:

While Heaven awaits the Star in the East,

And the poor garden sleeps in shade,

He lifts the graceless heart He made.