And from the Red sea comes each gem
That in its wreath is shining:
Their radiance glows like stars at night:
With precious blood-drops are they bright.
The Royal Sceptre that He bears
Beneath Whom nature quaketh,
No monarch's pride and pomp declares,
A Reed, it feebly shaketh:
For iron sceptre ne'er possess'd
The power to guide a human breast.
The Festive Purple of the Lord,
Is here no garment stately:
A vest, by very slaves abhorred;
—The worm hath tinged it lately:[1]
"I am a Worm," of old said He,—
And what its toils have tinged, ye see.
We therefore to the King of kings
Bow lowly, from Him learning
The pomp and pride that this world brings
To make our boast in spurning:
Such love the members best adorns,
For whom the Head was crowned with thorns. Amen.
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