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WHY THE ROSE IS RED.
NEAR two thousand years ago,
On a hill by crosses crowned,
Mercifully a little brown bird
Fluttered ever round and round.
On a hill by crosses crowned,
Mercifully a little brown bird
Fluttered ever round and round.
All was silent on that hillside,
Grim and gaunt the crosses rose;
Still the brown bird hovered closely
With the hope it could not lose.
Grim and gaunt the crosses rose;
Still the brown bird hovered closely
With the hope it could not lose.
Gently it descended, softly,
To the gentle thorn-crowned head;
Plucking at the darts which pierced it,
Till its breast with blood was red.
To the gentle thorn-crowned head;
Plucking at the darts which pierced it,
Till its breast with blood was red.
Grasping in its beak a thorn,
Flew away o'er hill and dale;
Flew until the morning light
Glowing made some unknown vale.
Flew away o'er hill and dale;
Flew until the morning light
Glowing made some unknown vale.
Many times the sun had risen,
Many times the stars had shone,
Still the bearer onward fleeting,
Onward through the air alone,
Many times the stars had shone,
Still the bearer onward fleeting,
Onward through the air alone,
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