To see and touch the Lord as he rode by,

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,

Those glad, rejoicing shouters presently

With never thought of pity or of loss,

The King of Glory on his cruel cross.

Lord, we would fain some little palm-branch lay

But we have nothing fair enough or sweet

To tread, nor dare our sin-stained garments fling

Yet thou, all-gracious One, didst not refuse

And even such worthless leaves as we may cull,

Thou wilt endure and pardon and receive,

Because thou knowest we have naught else to give.

So, Lord, our stubborn wills we first will break,

And next our selfishness, and then our pride,—

Our hearts, Lord, poor and fruitless though they be,

And quick to change, and nothing worth to see.

If but the foldings of thy garment’s hem

These worthless leaves which we have brought and strewed

Shall be raised up and made divinely sweet,

And fit to lie beneath thy gracious feet.