DEAR Lord, amid the throng that press'd
Around thee on th' accursed tree,
Some loyal, loving hearts were there,
Some pitying eyes that wept for thee.
Like them may we rejoice to own
Our dying Lord, though crown'd with thorn;
Like thee, thy blessed self, endure
The cross, with all its joy or scorn.
Thy cross, thy lonely path below,
Show what thy brethren all should be,—
Pilgrims on earth, disowned by those
Who see no beauty, Lord, in thee.