No more! how heals the tender flesh,
    Once torn by savage beast?
The wound, re-opening, bleeds afresh,
    Each season at the least!

O day, for dawn of thee how prayed
    The spirit, sore distressed;
Thy latest beams, upslanting, made
    A pathway for the blest.

And robes, new-donned, of the redeemed,
    Gleamed white past grief’s dark pall:
So this, a day of death which seemed,
    A birthday let us call.

Remembering, such day as this,
    A soul from flesh was shriven,
By death, God’s messenger of bliss;
    A spirit entered Heaven.

Thy dying head no loving breast
    Upheld, O early slain;
But soon, mid welcoming saints, ’twas prest
    Where God’s own Child has lain!

Though none at death broke Bread for thee,
    Or poured the Sacred Wine;
Thou, nourished at His Board, dost see
    The Substance of the Sign.

We mourned thee! Heaven’s new born, and rich
    Past all our prayers could claim,
Secure in blessedness, of which
    We have not learnt the name.