LEGEND OF THE ROBIN.
WHEN on the cross the Son of God
An offering for us was made—
Sore wounded by each rankling thorn,
The flush of pain doth rise and fade.
An offering for us was made—
Sore wounded by each rankling thorn,
The flush of pain doth rise and fade.
Who for that God, made one with man,
Of kindly pity feels a gleam—
His precepts pure, His hallow'd words,
Are scoff'd at as an idle dream!
Of kindly pity feels a gleam—
His precepts pure, His hallow'd words,
Are scoff'd at as an idle dream!
Weeping, heart-sick, faint and stricken,
All prone in grief His mother lies,
While gibe and jeer fly gaily round,
Mix'd with the gamblers' angry cries!
All prone in grief His mother lies,
While gibe and jeer fly gaily round,
Mix'd with the gamblers' angry cries!
