The child like night, no dawn begun,
No cry to quicken air or breast;
A star unlit, a buried sun
Yet still the Son is risen.

The womb became a tomb of stone,
The lullaby dissolved in air;
The mother wept, bereft, alone
And the Son is risen.

Upon the hill the blood was shed,
The hammers fell, nails driven deep;
The body broken, left for dead
And now the Son is risen.

The grave gave back what death had sealed,
The stone rolled wide, the women sang;
The wound became the world’s great shield
At last the Son is risen.

Still hush endures where flesh is lost,
No Easter light can split that shade;
One joy is won, one grief the cost
Yet still, the Son is risen.