Whose blood-tracked stones would cry, had they but breath,
“Woe! woe! Jerusalem, for this day’s deed of wrath.”
Almost unheeding passes on the crowd,
Save, here and there, turned from the populace,
Rests look of doubting or malignant face
On That we see not in death’s anguish bowed.
Wild cries of hate mount up and break the still
And ominous glare that broodeth dumbly o’er the hill.
Our sad hearts hear the very footsteps fall,
The horse-hoofs striking hard against the stones,