The Dead Church
Wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark, dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold, cold church, in thy death sleep lying,
The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.
Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;
Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain,
Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying;
Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again.
-- Charles Kingsley (19th Century poet, novelist, and small town pastor)