XXXI.

‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’
    There lives no record of reply,
    Which telling what it is to die
Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met,
    The streets were fill’d with joyful sound,
    A solemn gladness even crown’d
The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!
    The rest remaineth unreveal’d;
    He told it not; or something seal’d
The lips of that Evangelist.