Maundy Thursday

 Word made flesh, true bread He maketh

By His word His flesh to be,

Wine His blood; when man partaketh,

Though his senses fail to see,

Faith alone, when sight forsaketh,

Shows true hearts the mystery

 

Good Friday

 At the cross, her station keeping,

Stood the mournful mother weeping,

Where He hung, the dying Lord:

For her soul of joy bereaved,

Bowed with anguish deeply grieved,

Felt the sharp and piercing sword.

 

Holy Saturday

Resting from His work today,

In the tomb the Savior lay;

Still He slept from head to feet

Shrouded in the winding-sheet,

Lying in the rock alone,

Hidden by the sealed stone

 

Myrrh and spices will I bring,

True affection's offering,

Close the door from sight and sound

Of the busy world around,

And in patient watch remain

Till my Lord appear again.

   

Easter Sunday

 

He is not here, for He has risen, as He said

                                                     Matt 28

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