“Gather in twelve woven baskets all the fragments that remain:” 
    He hath fed the weary thousands, resting o’er the grassy plain,
  And His power hath stayed their hunger with five loaves and fishes twain.

  Thine, O Christ, is endless sweetness; Thou art our celestial Bread: 
    Nevermore he knoweth hunger, who upon Thy grace hath fed,
  Grace whereby no mortal body but the soul is nourished.

  They that knew not speech nor language, closed to every sound their ears,
    To the Master’s call responding break the barriers of years;
  Now the deaf holds joyous converse and the lightest whisper hears.

  Sickness at His word departed, pain and pallid languor fled,
    Many a tongue, long chained in silence, words of praise and blessing said;
  And the palsied man rejoicing through the city bore his bed.

  Yea, that they might know salvation who in Hades’ prison were pent,
    In His mercy condescending through Hell’s gloomy gates He went;
  Bolt and massy hinge were shattered, adamantine portals rent.

  For the door that all receiveth, but releaseth nevermore,
    Opens now and, slowly turning, doth the ghosts to light restore,
  Who, the eternal laws suspended, tread again its dusky floor.

  But, while God with golden glory floods the murky realms of night,
    And upon the startled shadows dawns a day serene and bright,
  In the darkened vault of heaven stars forlorn refuse their light.

  For the sun in garb of mourning veiled his radiant orb and passed
    From his flaming path in sorrow, hiding till mankind aghast
  Deemed that o’er a world of chaos Night’s eternal pall was cast.

  Now, my soul, in liquid measures let the sounding numbers flow;
    Sing the trophy of His passion, sing the Cross triumphant now;
  Sing the ensign of Christ’s glory, marked on every faithful brow.

  Ah! how wondrous was the fountain flowing from His pierced side,
    Whence the blood and water mingled in a strange and sacred tide,—­
  Water, sign of mystic cleansing; blood, the martyr’s crown of pride.

  In that hour the ancient Serpent saw the holy Victim slain,
    Saw, and shed his hate envenomed, all his malice spent in vain;
  See! the hissing neck is broken as he writhes in sullen pain.

  Aye, what boots it, cursed Serpent, that the man God made from clay,
    Victim of thy baleful cunning, by thy lies was led astray? 
  God hath ta’en a mortal body and hath washed the guilt away.

  Christ, our Captain, for a season deigned to dwell in Death’s domain,
    That the dead, long time imprisoned, might return to life again,
  Breaking by His great example ancient sins’ enthralling chain.

  Thus, upon the third glad morning, patriarchs and saints of yore,
    As the risen Lord ascended, followed Him who went before,
  From forgotten graves proceeding, habited in flesh once more.