PALM SUNDAY.
THE multitude was crowding all the way,
But yesterday,
To see and touch the Lord as he rode by,
To catch his eye,
Or at the very least a palm-branch fling
Upon the pathway of the chosen King.
Faded and dry those palms lie in the sun,
Witherèd each one;
Those glad, rejoicing shouters presently
Will flock to see,
With never thought of pity or of loss,
The King of Glory on his cruel cross.
Lord, we would fain some little palm-branch lay
Upon thy way;
But we have nothing fair enough or sweet
For holy feet
To tread, nor dare our sin-stained garments fling
Yet thou, all-gracious One, didst not refuse
Those fickle Jews;
And even such worthless leaves as we may cull,
Faded and dull,
Thou wilt endure and pardon and receive,
Because thou knowest we have naught else to give.
So, Lord, our stubborn wills we first will break,
If thou wilt take;
And next our selfishness, and then our pride,—
And what beside?
Our hearts, Lord, poor and fruitless though they be,
And quick to change, and nothing worth to see.
If but the foldings of thy garment’s hem
Shall shadow them,
These worthless leaves which we have brought and strewed
Along thy road
Shall be raised up and made divinely sweet,
And fit to lie beneath thy gracious feet.