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Deep in Thy darksome bed;  All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone  Thy sacred form is gone;  Around those lips where power and mercy hung,  The dews of deaths have clung;  The dull earth o’er Thee, and Thy foes around,  Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound. Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled,  At large among the dead?  Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice  Wake Abraham to rejoice,  The thronging band of souls;  That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony  Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Edward puseyJohn kebleWilliam wordsworthTorsten dettlaff pexelsJohn henry newmanPoetry at oxford universityAnglican churchOxford movementChristian yearCommon prayerOxford universityஎட்வர்ட் ப்யூஸீவில்லியம் சொற்கள்ஜான் ஹென்றி புதியவர்பொவெட்ரீ இல் ஆக்ஸ்ஃபர்ட் பல்கலைக்கழகம்ஆங்கிலிகன் தேவாலயம்