To see and touch the Lord as he rode by,
To catch his eye,
Or at the very least a palm-branch fling
Upon the pathway of the chosen King.
Faded and dry those palms lie in the sun,
Witherèd each one;
Those glad, rejoicing shouters presently
Will flock to see,
With never thought of pity or of loss,
The King of Glory on his cruel cross.