All night had shout of men, and cry 
Of woeful women filled His way; 
Until that noon of sombre sky 
On Friday, clamour and display 
Smote Him; no solitude had He, 
No silence, since Gethsemane.

Public was Death; but Power, but Might, 
But Life again, but Victory, 
Were hushed within the dead of night, 
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy. 
And all alone, alone, alone, 
He rose again behind the stone.