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Because He RoseBehold this shriveled, wrinkled thing - It stirs and grows, bursts into bloom; Its fragrance perfumes all the room. Who tells the silent prisoner, The little worm in tight cocoon, "Wake up and work, and burst your bonds; "You will be winged and flying soon?" Who tells the acorn in the ground To keep on reaching toward the sky? How could it dream that it would be A spreading oak tree, wide and high? Who speaks within my sickroom, where I live, a prisoner of pain, And tells me, though this body die, This very flesh shall live again? Because He rose, I too shall rise, Shall rise and walk and dance and sing; And there shall be no grief, no pain, Nor any tears, remembering! M.S.N. |
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