The young King rode through the City street,
So gallant, gay and bold;
There were roses strewn‘ neath his horse's feet,
His brows were bound with gold,
And his heart was glad for his people's cheers
Along his pathway rolled.
Glad was his heart and bright his face,
For life and youth were fair;
And he rode through many a pleasant place —
Broad street and sunny square —
Till he came to the market-place and saw
A crucifix stand there.
Hushed were the crowd's exultant cries,
To awe-struck silence grown;
For they saw the young King's laughing eyes
Grow grave beneath his crown,
As the crowned King looked up, for lo!
A crowned King looked down.
Grave were the eyes above, and sad;
The face with pain was lined,
And the pierced hands no sceptre had;
Both brows a crown did bind.
But the earthly King was crowned with gold —
The Christ with thorns entwined.
Slowly the young King homeward rode
In awe and wondering;
He had looked that day on the face of God,
And learned that for a king
The lordliest crown his brows can bear
Is the crown of suffering.