Sundown On Calvary

Where art Thou, wandering Bird? Thy sweet voice is not heard On this wild day, When the Father mourns the Son, When the Son no Father hath, And Thou hast but chaos for Thy path.

The Father keeps the Sepulchre, The Son lies quiet there. Where is thy place? Where rest in a world undone? Holy Ghost, a multitude Guards the Cross; there hardly canst Thou brood.

To the dark waters haste, Spread pinions on the waste; There breathe, there play; Forsake the Wood! There is no resting-place for Thee On this lovely, noble, blighted Tree.

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But lo, it is sundown; The bodies taken down, Quiet the hill: The Tree drips blood on the path: And, the jolted beams above, Croons, calls across the evening-winds, a Dove!