The Sprig of Thorn

"Sirs, is this not a poor thing,"
Loud cried I up and down,
"I plucked from an old, straggly tree
Half way to Bethlehem town?

Oh, shepherd, let me have of you
A lamb from out your fold!
Oh, king, take from your bursting chests,
A handful of your gold!"

"Now more than all my huddled flock,"
The old wise shepherd cried,
"Your sprig of thorn; now more indeed
Than my good fold beside."

The king came down from his tall throne:
"His red cloak made a flare:
Hold fast that bloom from Bethlehem Road,
I have no gold so rare."

I ran straight to the Lamb of God;
I gave my flower so white;
His mother saw it was of thorn,
And wept through half the night.