On the cross the dying Saviour <br />Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, <br />Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling <br />In his pierced and bleeding palm. <br /> <br />And by all the world forsaken, <br />Sees he how with zealous care <br />At the ruthless nail of iron <br />A little bird is striving there. <br /> <br />Stained with blood and never tiring, <br />With its beak it doth not cease, <br />From the cross 't would free the Saviour, <br />Its Creator's Son release. <br /> <br />And the Saviour speaks in mildness: <br />'Blest be thou of all the good! <br />Bear, as token of this moment, <br />Marks of blood and holy rood!' <br /> <br />And that bird is called the crossbill; <br />Covered all with blood so clear, <br />In the groves of pine it singeth <br />Songs, like legends, strange to hear.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-legend-of-the-crossbill-from-the-german-of-julius-mosen/
