There is nothing more that they can do For all their rage and boast; Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew, Herod with his host,
Pontius Pilate in his Judgement-hall Judging their Judge and his, Or he who led them all and passed them all, Arch-Judas with his kiss.
The sepulchre made sure with ponderous Stone, Seal that same stone, O Priest; It may be thou shalt block the holy One From rising in the east:
Set a watch about the sepulchre To watch on pain of death; They must hold fast the stone if One should stir And shake it from beneath.
God Almighty, He can break a seal And roll away a Stone, Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel, And crush the mighty one.
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There is nothing more that they can do For all their passionate care, Those who sit in dust, the blessed few, And weep and rend their hair:
Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalene, The Virgin unreproved, Joseph, with Nicodemus, foremost men, And John the Well-beloved,
Bring your finest linen and your spice, Swathe the sacred Dead, Bind with careful hands and piteous eyes The napkin round His head;
Lay Him in the garden-rock to rest; Rest you the Sabbath length: The Sun that went down crimson in the west Shall rise renewed in strength.
God Almighty shall give joy for pain, Shall comfort him who grieves: Lo! He with joy shall doubtless come again, And with Him bring His sheaves.