Classic Poem

Although the letter said
On thistles that men look not grapes to gather,°
I read the story rather
How soldiers platting thorns around CHRIST'S Head
Grapes grew and drops of wine were shed.

Though when the sower sowed°
The wingèd fowls took part, part fell in thorn
And never turned to corn,
Part found no root upon the flinty road,—
CHRIST at all hazards fruit hath shewed.

From wastes of rock He brings°
Food for five thousand: on the thorns He shed
Grains from His drooping Head;
And would not have that legion of winged things°
Bear Him to heaven on easeful wings.