Sweet robin, I have heard them say That thou wert there upon the day The Christ was crowned in cruel scorn And bore away one bleeding thorn,— That so the blush upon thy breast, In shameful sorrow, was impressed; And thence thy genial sympathy With our redeemed humanity. Sweet Robin, would that I might be Bathed in my Saviour’s blood, like thee; Bear in my breast, whate’er the loss, The bleeding blazon of the cross; Live ever, with thy loving mind, In fellowship with human kind; And take my pattern still from thee, In gentleness and constancy.
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