"The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight; the children leaped and sang Louder hosannas; the clear air was filled With odor from the trampled olive leaves But 'Jesus wept!' The loved disciple saw His Master's tear, and closer to His side He came with yearning looks, and on his neck The Saviour leaned with heavenly tenderness, And mourned, 'How oft, Jerusalem! would I Have gathered you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings--but ye would not!' "He thought not of the death that He should die-- He thought not of the thorns He knew must pierce His forehead--of the buffet on the cheek-- The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn! "Gethsemane stood out beneath His eye Clear in the morning sun; and there, He knew, While they who 'could not watch with Him one hour' Were sleeping, He should sweat great drops of blood, Praying the cup might pass! And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall; And in its midst, to His prophetic eye Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were numbered all--the nails were in His feet-- Th' insulting sponge was pressing on His lips-- The blood and water gushed from His side-- The dizzy faintness swimming in His brain-- And, while His own disciples fled in fear, A world's death agonies all mixed in His! Ah!--He forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem--the chosen--the loved--the lost! He only felt that for her sake His life Was vainly given, and in His pitying love The sufferings that would clothe the heavens in black Were quite forgotten. "Was there ever love, In earth or heaven, equal to this?"[5] And so the King entered His capital. It was a royal procession. Mark keenly the result. Again that utter, ominous, loud silence, that greeted His ears first, more than three years before. He had come to His own home. His own kinsfolk received Him not!