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!