‘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.