About whose stem the thorny wreath doth twine,
Grown soft for us since He hath borne it first.
Cool draught! wherein no hidden drop of gall
Makes heaven bitter, and earth’s promise all.
VII.
Shall poets change for bay the crown divine
Wreathing the head of Him about whom throng
Life’s tenderest flowers, who holds art’s perfect song
In his pierced hands?—pure gift in holiest shrine!—
From whose rent side the consecrating flood