I read the Gospel-record of those cries Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm; Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I closed mine eyes, Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm; I dream'd - a fond presumptuous pity took My soul; I seem'd to line the coming crown Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook; But, on the act, quick came the reprimand, 'What mean'st thou, sinner! with pretentious hand To staunch the life-blood of the Incarnate Son? Without My wounds, the world remains undone; Why dost thou, then, forbid thy Lord to bleed? Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed?' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MILTON'S PRAYER [OF PATIENCE, OR, IN BLINDNESS] by ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL AMOR MUNDI by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI IN PROGRESS by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A MOTHER'S PICTURE by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN |