On the cross the dying Saviour
       &nbsp Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
       &nbsp In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,
       &nbsp Sees he how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
       &nbsp A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,
       &nbsp With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
       &nbsp Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness:
       &nbsp "Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear, as token of this moment,
       &nbsp Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is called the crossbill;
       &nbsp Covered all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
       &nbsp Songs, like legends, strange to hear.