It was the road to Jericho,
And brave indeed the man
Who went alone and waited not
To join the caravan.

For robber hoards swooped down the cliffs
Like eagles on their prey,
And mercy was not known to them,
Theirs but to kill and slay.

Along the road to Jericho
A man went riding by,
He heard a groan of mortal pain,
He heard a piercing cry.

He got him down from off his beast,
He found the one who bled,
The thieves had bruised and beaten him
And left him well nigh dead

(The Levite and the priest had passed,
The calls to them were vain).
He bound his wounds. With oil and wine
He eased the grevious pain.

Then to the inn he carried him
And paid the keeper's price,
As one who does a deed for love,
Nor counts it sacrifice.

Lo, as he passed upon his way,
His robe it showed a stain—
Two red marks on his white sleeve, where
The bleeding head had lain.

One, made in pity when he stooped
To lift the wounded up,
The other, when in love he bent
To offer him the cup.

Two red, red lines which made a cross,
And marked him as the man
Whose name is, till the end of time
"The good Samaritan."