Another song on the Images of Christ 
When Jesus Christ was yet a child
He had a garden small and wild,
Where-in he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.
Now once as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they plucked them merrily.
‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away,’
Then of the thorns he made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young,
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.
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