CHRIST IS RISEN by C. M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 29, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, No. 13.

CHRIST IS RISEN.

By C. M. Snow

THE sound of shouting and the tumult ceased, And pitying Night a melancholy pall Let down o'er Palestine. The Christ of God Was sleeping in the tomb of Joseph now A dreamless sleep; and angry hosts had slunk Away to reason with their consciences, Or drown them in the flow of ruddy wine. Earth slumbered with her Maker sacrificed, And held Him to her bosom—dead.

The crown

By mocking jesters pressed upon His brow Had left its cruel impress in the flesh Condemned. The hands whose office work had been To pour upon the head of youth and age The kindliest blessings of a loving God; The feet so often weary with the way O'er mountain steep or by the rocky shore; The lips that once had launched the moving spheres And spoke to life the Adam of the race— Were lifeless all, and man in type was dead. The night of sin—a dreary, cheerless night— Had here fulfilment manifest, and sin Itself, in type, triumphant sat enthroned. Old earth was tottering on the verge

The Morning of the Saviour's Resurrection.

Of ruin absolute, while in the tomb, In bonds of death to satisfy the law By mortals broken, lay the Gift of God, Enwrapped in Death's habiliments, that He Might work the purpose of Jehovah's mind, To conquer all that triumphed over man.

The ear of Heaven was bowed to earth, but earth Was slumbering still, unconscious of the scale Jehovah held to weigh her destiny. The book of God was fair, the pages clean, And 'gainst the name of Jesus there appeared No sign of sin committed, or of thought To show that aught but fealty to God Inhabited the heart now held of Death.

"O Christ, come forth; the keepers of the dead Hold not dominion over you!" The stone By Roman order sealed is powerless To hold whom God does not condemn.

Roll back, Frail figment of the Roman realm, nor think To stifle with the hand of stone the life That paid sin's penalties from Adam down. Roll back, ye somber, silent gates of death; The conquering King comes through. Roll back, ye dark And threatening clouds of doom; the Sun comes forth

To lighten with His gleam from pole to pole The sorrowing regions of a stricken world. Roll back, roll back, ye hosts from heaven flung; For man in type has conquered every foe, And stands triumphant with the keys of death.

O grand, O glorious liberty is that Which stepped with Christ from Joseph's open tomb, And trimmed anew the fading, dimming flame Of hope, and set a star to guide the race From earth's long night to heaven's glorious day! That tomb a cradle was; and pillowed there Our freedom lay in natal robes, and harked The velvet footfalls of the angel guard.

Down all the rolling years that since have passed, A thorny way she threaded through the myths Of pagan rites, and struggled hard to plant A nobler tree, whose leaves should heal the wounds Oppression rained upon the hearts of men. That tree is blooming yet whose seed was sown Behind the stone a Roman law had sealed— Within the tomb that shut a Saviour in. His death our immortality insured— His tomb the birthplace of our liberties.

Yes, Christ is risen, and our souls are free— Free in the liberty His life has given;

Free from the death that knows no waking hour; Free from the sins that long have pressed us down; And free to worship, and obey His will.

We turn no tearful eyes to Joseph's tomb; We bend no knee in mosque Mohammedan, Nor slay in strife to win the vacant place Where rested once the Saviour of mankind. Go forth, go forth, and tell a waiting world The Son of God is in His tomb no more.

Say not the heart, the head, the hand must yield A servile homage to a human creed. The life that burst the shackles of the tomb Will burst this prison, too. The mind of God Is broader, deeper than the wisest mind His hand has fashioned from the clay of earth. The strongest cord your puny hand may weave Is rope of sand, and ne'er will anchor you Within the vail. Ye can not build a tow'r More stable than the pile that crumbles now On Shinar's plain; and such is every creed. But vacant tombs are all these instruments By human mind conceived, and empty all; They are but shells, and all are tenantless; For Christ is risen—you'll not find Him there.

Nor is the presence of that Holy One Enlinked with laws that seek by finite force

To scourge to God th' unwilling wanderer. The Son of God leans not on reed so frail As human law, to work His holy will. His law who made the spheres is not so weak That laws of men must prop it or it fall. We may not place against the ark of God, Wherein His law abides, a steadying hand. The lesson writ is ours to learn, and we Are wiser when we heed. The fearful one Who flees from laws oppressive to the shield He finds in creed professed has buried deep The love that would have won him to his God.

From such a tomb the Spirit flies. Our strength Is weakness while we think to hold Him there. Proclaim this truth in glorious ministry: Our Christ is risen, and the soul is free. C. M. SNOW.