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All night had shout of men, and cry |
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.
Public was Death; but Power, but Might, |
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter’d dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.
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Lane Core Jr. (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Created April 9, 2001; revised April 10, 2001.