IS'T joy to me that Jesus lives? That he,
Whom mortals buried, burst the riven tomb,
And came again to prove that he was God?
What joy? Men slay their enemies,and I
Was one that slew him,for my guilt was there,
To bind a thorn the more upon his brow?
My faithless, cold ingratitude was there,
To add a burden to his bosom's sadness;
And I was party to that fearful burst
Of agony that swelled his sinless heart;
And brake it, ere the murderous sword had smitten.
What joy? Men do not love to see again
The being they have injured and have slain!
'Twere safer for them, that the grave they closed,
Should hold him in its iron grasp for ever.
Is't joy to me that Jesus lives? That he
Who suffered and was buried, comes again
In character of Heaven's eternal King,
To be the arbiter of weal or woe?
What joy? If Jesus lives, he lives to judge
And to decide between the soul that loves him,
Or loves him not,and surely as he brings
To one the eternal purchase of his anguish,
Pardon, and joy, and holiness, and love,
Peace upon earth, in heav'n immortality;
So surely to the other is he bearer
Of that unsparing justice that has fallen
Once on himself, but now must fall on all
Who have not known him, lov'd him, and been pardon'd.

Jesus is risen. Yes; but ere I join
The pain of joyful gratitude, that hails
The day of his returning, let me think
If he who has arisen is my friend.
If he is not my friend, he is my foe,
Most injured, most insulted, most provoked,
Men do not sing a welcome to their foes.
Still the loud musick, doff the gay attire,
Till, wrapt in deep and silent communing,
My spirit first has questioned of itself
If it be so, that I have cause for joy.

If I have lov'd him,aye, but then to love
Is to desire, to follow, to obey:
It is to bind the object on the heart
So close, so near, that nought may come between,
Nor ought be held of value, or be deem'd
Too much to part from, or too much to leave,
Or suffer, for the sake of him we love.
With him,it is to listen to his words,
And drink them in as eagerly, as gladly,
As does the parched and thirsty soil drink in
The first small droppings of the summer shower.
Away from him,it is to remember
When all beside forget him; and recall
His name, his character, his words, his wishes,
Where nothing whispers of them but our love,
And all around us and about us sounds,
Amid the turmoil of a restless world,
Oblivion to his honour and his name.
It is to have his will so deeply written
Upon our hearts, that running we may read it:
And, 'mid the hurry of existence, never
Forego it or forget it, or let pass
Affection's wakeful, monitory whisper,
That says, ' 'Tis so he would',' 'tis so he would not.'
If I am pardon'd,am I pardon'd then!
The prodigal, who chose his luckless portion
So far at distance from his father's house,
And for a season liked it, and expended
All that he had in careless revelry,
So long as he was happy, was not pardon'd.
Nay, nor was he pardoned, when, bereaved,
Or wearied, or forsaken of his pleasures,
He sate him down in sadness to abide
The miserable portion he had earned,
Distant in sorrow then, as erst in joy.
From sorrow, or from joy, or from him,
Whatever or where'er, apart from the things,
That made me blest or wretched, have I risen,
And gat me back again to ask a pardon?
Vain, vain had been to him the dance, the song,
The voice of mirth, and noise of revelry,
That day that sounded through his father's halls,
Had he not been the pardon'd, the accepted,
At once the willing and the welcom'd guest.
And vainer far than this, and worse than vain,
A senseless mockery and a bold derision,
It were to me to sing a joyful welcome
To one I have forgotten and forsaken;
And idly come to celebrate a day
That is not joy to me, unless, indeed,
There something be within me to attest
That I have lov'd him, and am lov'd of Him.