Oh, corpse! Yet not a corpse at all
Though from the bleak tree you did fall
And though no breath now swells your lungs
Your voice, once praised by mortal tongues
No longer sounding in our ears
Bloodless lips kissed by women’s tears
All blood exhausted from gashes
From blows and nails and vile lashes

But what a secret lies here; hark!
This bruisèd frame the promised ark
A chamber where all souls are hid
Hell trembles at his love-mad bid
For while grave death his chamber keeps
His flesh unsouled, he merely sleeps
Mark, dear heart, where the Master lies
This wounded flesh, it aches to rise