"All nature shrank, with bitter moan,
To see her great Creator die;
Man, for whose ransom all was done,
Alone went by unheedingly.

"Methought that all creation should

Draw near in mourning to that Rood; I did the little that I could,

And bathed my breast in Jesus' blood.

"Therefore, my child, it lingers yet,
A precious token on my heart,
My Maker's seal upon me set
A blessing that can not depart.

"And children love me when they see

My little scapular of red;

And think the while on Calvary,

And Jesus' blood, for sinners shed."

Legend of Palm Sunday.

To Zion's gates her monarch came

Whom prophet kings foretold,
Whom saints and bards had longed to see,
From the far days of old.

Whom erst a wondrous star announced,
While angels hailed His birth :

Creator of the sun and skies,
And of the fruitful earth.

He came not as the conquerors come
In vengeance and in wrath,

No herald told His victory, won
O'er sin, and hell, and death.
But little children flocked around,
In His high praise to sing,
And with their guileless voices cried :
Hosanna to the King!

No draperies of cloth of gold,
Nor Tyrian dyes so fair,
No carpets rich in gorgeous fold
Were laid before Him there :
But garments of the simple poor
Were spread upon His way,
And branches of the dewy palms,
And boughs of olive gray.

It was not on a gallant steed

The Prince of Peace would ride, Upon no charger, barbed and plumed, Caparisoned in pride.

But 'twas upon a lowly ass,

Of nature mild and meek,

That He would enter, who no throne
Of earth had come to seek.

And still the gentle ass doth bear
Upon its back a cross,

In memory of the Saviour's hour

Of grief, contempt, and loss.

It, patient, shares the hard reproach,

It meekly bears all blame,

And wanders through the haughty world

In royal robe of shame.

Its path is rugged, and its food
Is but the barren thorn,
Its thankless meed alone to be

Derision harsh, and scorn.
Yet oh! methinks, 'twere sacrilege
To strike it with a blow,
That form with large gazelle-like eyes,
Dark in their silent woe.

If relics of our hero kings

We treasure up and prize,
And everything that tells of them
Is precious in our eyes :
Far rather should we dearly love
That mild and timid thing
That bore the world's Redeemer
To Jerusalem, as King.

Then, oh! dear children, gently deal
With little ones, and weak,
Remember Jesus loveth such,
He is so kind and meek.
And to the poor and frail bestow
Consideration due,

So, in your hour of need, His eye
Will gently smile on you!

NEAR to the margin of the Forth, So tall, and white, and fair, Against the dark sky of the north Stands lonely Inzievar.