Easter Sunday, 1916 by William Arthur Dunkerley

  The sun shone white and fair,

    This Eastertide,
    Yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride
    Our souls' despair;
    For stricken hearts, and loss and pain,
    Were everywhere.
    We sang our Alleluias,--
    We said, "The Christ is risen!
                    From this His earthly prison,
                    The Christ indeed is risen.
                    He is gone up on high,
                    To the perfect peace of heaven."

    Then, with a sigh,
    We wondered...
    Our minds evolved grim hordes of huns,
    Our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns,
    On our very souls they thundered.
    Can you wonder?--Can you wonder,
    That we wondered,
    As we heard the huns' guns thunder?
    That we looked in one another's eyes
    And wondered,--

    "Is Christ indeed then risen from the dead?
    Hath He not rather fled
    For ever from a world where He
    Meets such contumely?"

    Our hearts were sick with pain,
    As they beat the sad refrain,--
    "How shall the Lord Christ come again?
    How can the Lord Christ come again?
    Nay,--will He come again?
    Is He not surely fled
    For ever from a world where He
    Is still so buffeted?"

    But the day's glory all forbade
    Such depth of woe.    Came to our aid
    The sun, the birds, the springing things,
    The winging things, the singing things;
    And taught us this,--
    After each Winter cometh Spring,--
    God's hand is still in everything,--
    His mighty purposes are sure,--
    His endless love doth still endure,
    And will not cease, nor know remiss,
    Despite man's forfeiture.

    The Lord is risen indeed!
    In very truth and deed
    The Lord is risen, is risen, is risen;
    He will supply our need.

    So we took heart again,
    And built us refuges from pain
    Within His coverture,--
    Strong towers of Love, and Hope, and Faith,
    That shall maintain
    Our souls' estate
    Too high and great
    For even Death to violate.