A pale light stealing through the rainy sky
Like peace through sorrow, comforting the eye
On our Palm Sunday, wayworn pilgrims three,
Beside the lonely lake of Galilee,
—Most blest of lakes, whose hush remembers yet
Those multitudes on broad Gennesaret,
The reaching arms, the cries that still pursued,
As Jesus sought the mid-sea solitude.

How oft Mount Hermon, in the sunset glow,
Would cleave its clouds, exceeding white as snow,
An alabaster altar crowned with fire,
To worship Him, the blind world's long Desire,
The Christ, a guest in some rude fishing-boat,
Wrapt in His seamless Galilaean coat,
Forspent with healing, drawing heavy breath,
The Lord of Life Who went the way of death.

And He, on Whom our mortal weakness weighed,
—Even on Him, Whom winds and waves obeyed,—
Would peradventure watch, too tired for prayer,
That sudden splendor melt in purple air,
As dusk drew over and the stars shone out,
Until the murmurous ripples, that about
The rocking keel intoned their timid psalms,
Were to His slumber like the sound of palms.

If then stept soft the sons of Zebedee
To ease the drooping head on patient knee
Or coil of nets for pillow, surely they
Marvelled above the Dreamer, for He lay
With tender triumph on the wistful face,
As of one welcomed by the waving grace
Of fair green branches, while their hearts in them
Burned with impatience for Jerusalem.