So dear to me,
As in an empty tomb within
Men sing the praises of the Cross,
And, rightly so,
Yet, it is to the Empty Tomb
I love to go.
It’s there with Paul, I daily die
When sore oppressed,
It’s there, where men are loathe to go
I sweetly rest.
It’s there, when heart ache’s angry waves
In faith, I lift my mournful face
My Lord to see.
There is no place so fraught with power
Our souls to save.
As is our Lord’s last resting place,
His empty grave.
By Mrs. Charles Cowman