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THE SPRIG OF THORN
"SIRS, is this not a poor thing," Loud cried I up and down, "I plucked from an old, straggly tree Half way to Bethlehem town?
Oh, shepherd, let me have of you A lamb from out your fold! Oh, king, take from your bursting chests, A handful of your gold!"
"Now more than all my huddled flock," The old wise shepherd cried, "Your sprig of thorn; now more indeed Than my good fold beside."
The king came down from his tall throne: "His red cloak made a flare: Hold fast that bloom from Bethlehem Road, I have no gold so rare."
I ran straight to the Lamb of God; I gave my flower so white; His mother saw it was of thorn, And wept through half the night.