WHY THE ROBIN’S BREAST WAS RED
By James Ryder Randall
The Saviour, bowed beneath His Cross, climbed up the dreary hill,
And from the agonizing wreath ran many a crimson rill;
The cruel Roman thrust Him on with unrelenting hand,
Till, staggering slowly ’mid the crowd, He fell upon the sand.
A little bird that warbled near, that memorable day,
Flitted around and strove to wrench one single thorn away;
The cruel spike impaled his breast,—and thus ’tis sweetly said,
The robin has his silver vest incarnadined with red.