“The world...is full of resurrections... Every night that folds us up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early, and have seen the first of the dawn, will know it - the day rises out of the night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life.”

“In the windowless tomb of a blind mother, in the dead of the night, under feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe, a girl came into the darkness with a wail.”

“No, there is no escape. There is no heaven with a little of hell in it - no place to retain this or that of the devil in our hearts or our pockets. Out Satan must go, every hair and feather.”

“Then came the reflection, how little at any time could a father do for the wellbeing of his children! The fact of their being children implied their need of an all-powerful father: must there not then be such a father? Therewith the truth dawned upon him, that first of truths, which all his church-going and Bible-reading had hitherto failed to disclose, that, for life to be a good thing and worth living, a man must be the child of a perfect father, and know him. In his terrible perturbation about his children, he lifted up his heart—not to the Governor of the world; not to the God of Abraham or Moses; not in the least to the God of the Kirk; least of all to the God of the Shorter Catechism; but to the faithful creator and Father of David Barclay. The aching soul which none but a perfect father could have created capable of deploring its own fatherly imperfection, cried out to the father of fathers on behalf of his children, and as he cried, a peace came stealing over him such as he had never before felt.”

“The back door of every tomb opens on a hilltop.”

“Mary MagdaleneWith wandering eyes and aimless zeal, She hither, thither, goes;Her speech, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose.She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven;One hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven!She slumbers into new distress; The night is worse than day:Exulting in her helplessness; Hell's dogs yet louder bay.The demons blast her to and fro; She has not quiet place,Enough a woman still, to know A haunting dim disgrace.A human touch! a pang of death! And in a low delightThou liest, waiting for new breath, For morning out of night.Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool; thou art free!Is it a dream of hell's despair Dissolves in ecstasy?That man did touch thee! Eyes divine Make sunrise in thy soul;Thou seest love in order shine:- His health hath made thee whole!Thou, sharing in the awful doom, Didst help thy Lord to die;Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, Didst hear him Mary cry.He stands in haste; he cannot stop; Home to his God he fares:'Go tell my brothers I go up To my Father, mine and theirs.'Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; Cry, cry, and heed not how; Make all the new-risen world rejoice- Its first apostle thou!What if old tales of thee have lied, Or truth have told, thou artAll-safe with Him, whate'er betide Dwell'st with Him in God's heart!”

“I rose as from the death that wipes out the sadness of life, and then dies itself in the new morrow.”