II
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o in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone,I with my secret self held communing of mine own.So in the southern city spake the tongueOf one that somewhat overwildly sung,But in a later hour I sat and heardAnother voice that spake—another graver word.Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said,Though He be dead, He is not dead.In the true creedHe is yet risen indeed;Christ is yet risen. Weep not beside His tomb,Ye women unto whomHe was great comfort and yet greater grief;Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with Him to roam,Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to your home;Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their belief;Though He be dead, He is not dead,Nor gone, though fled,Not lost, though vanished;Though He return not, thoughHe lies and moulders low;In the true creedHe is yet risen indeed;Christ is yet risen. Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground,Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look around.Whate’er befell,Earth is not hell;Now, too, as when it first began,Life is yet life, and man is man.For all that breathe beneath the heaven’s high cope,Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope.Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief:Or at least, faith unbelief.Though dead, not dead;Not gone, though fled;Not lost, though vanished.In the great gospel and true creed,He is yet risen indeed;Christ is yet risen.
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