THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL
On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,
Sees He how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring
With its beak it doth not cease;
From the cross ’twould free the Saviour,
Its Creator’s Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness:
“Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!”
And that bird is called the crossbill;
Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.[16]
Henry W. Longfellow