Down through the tomb's inward arch

    He has shouldered out into Limbo

    to gather them， dazed， from dreamless slumber：

    the merciful dead， the prophets，

    the innocents just His own age and those

    unnumbered others waiting here

    unaware， in an endless void He is ending

    now， stooping to tug at their hands，

    to pull them from their sarcophagi，

    dazzled， almost unwilling. Didmas，

    neighbor in death， Golgotha dust

    still streaked on the dried sweat of his body

    no one had washed and anointed， is here，

    for sequence is not known in Limbo；

    the promise， given from cross to cross

    at noon， arches beyond sunset and dawn.

    All these He will swiftly lead

    to the Paradise road： they are safe.

    That done， there must take place that struggle

    no human presumes to picture：

    living， dying， descending to rescue the just

    from shadow， were lesser travails

    than this： to break

    through earth and stone of the faithless world

    back to the cold sepulchre， tearstained

    stifling shroud； to break from them

    back into breath and heartbeat， and walk

    the world again， closed into days and weeks again，

    wounds of His anguish open， and Spirit

    streaming through every cell of flesh

    so that if mortal sight could bear

    to perceive it， it would be seen

    His mortal flesh was lit from within， now，

    and aching for home. He must return，

    first， in Divine patience， and know

    hunger again， and give

    to humble friends the joy

    of giving Him food——fish and a honeycomb.