Thrust in his hands a withered reed
To hail Him King—Thine only born—
And crowned His shrinking brow with thorn!
Where must He pass—Lord Christ—Thy Son?
Calvary looms in the West again:—
We thought the sad world lost and won
When He died on the Cross for the sins of men.
Must He die again? And where? And when?
Where, in their hell, the heathen rage,
The hun’s imperial priest appears