A Holy Saturday poem by John Keble. Be sure to read the first lines of the last stanza: AT length the worst is o’er, and Thou art laid Deep in thy darksome bed; All still and cold beneath you dreary stone Thy sacred form is gone; Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dews of death have clung; The dull earth o’er Thee, and thy foes around, Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound. Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is thy spirit fled, At large among the dead? Whether in Eden bowers thy welcome voice Wake Abraham to rejoice, Or in some drearier scene thine eye controuls The thronging band of souls; That, as thy blood won earth, thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free. Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know, Seen at thy side in woe, Waits on thy triumph—even as all the blest With him and thee shall rest. Each on his cross, by Thee we hang a while, Watching thy patient smile, Till we have...