Palm Sunday

He comes upon a donkey sat;

Hosannas loud I cry,

And spread my garments at His feet

As He is passing by.

 

My garments cost no sacrifice,

They slip from me with ease;

I also lay, at little price,

Long branches torn from trees.

 

Not my trees are they that I break

To offer to my King.

The wealth of others I can take

And in His pathway fling.

 

But what of self, my cherished part?

Is that too dear to give?

And do I fear to give my heart

In case I should not live?

 

I stand and gaze, or shout and cheer

The King upon His throne.

But in His eye I catch a tear,

And I am left alone!