Classic Poem

I read the Gospel-record of those cries
Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm;
Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I closed mine eyes,
Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm;
I dream'd—a fond presumptuous pity took
My soul; I seem'd to line the coming crown
Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down
From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook;
But, on the act, quick came the reprimand,
‘What mean'st thou, sinner! with pretentious hand
To staunch the life-blood of the Incarnate Son?
Without My wounds, the world remains undone;
Why dost thou, then, forbid thy Lord to bleed?
Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed?’