WHEN cruel hands that crown did twine,

Which pressed the Saviour's brow divine,

Unconsciously a rosebud white,

Was twined amid the sharp thorns tight;

And, lying on that holy hair,

It saw where thorns had wounded there;

So, gently from its place it slips,

To kiss the wound with trembling lips;

And ever since, the legend said,

The blood has tinged its lips with red;

The emblem of God's love and grace,

Among the thorns it kept its place;

So ne'er a crown of thorns we win,

But has some sweet flower twined within;

Search 'mid each, with fingers of care,

You'll find a rosebud hidden there.