When Jesus meekly passed to death And bore the cursed rood, With faltering limbs and failing breath, And brow bedewed with blood; A small bird hovering in the air Flew down and strove, in vain, With feeble strength, but pious care To soothe the Saviour's pain. The only thorn its love could wrest From out His ruthless crown, Pierced sharply through its gentle breast And crimsoned all the down. Ages have passed: but since that deed, The bird with crimson breast— Oh! sweetly superstitious creed— Is loved by man the best. |