When comes that happy end, O Lord our God!
Your glory rains as blizzard-snow around!
Those feet that on the palms and nails have trod
shall tread the crystal crowns laid on the ground!
The city-song of triumph, loud, shall pale
before the angels sing the silent-song
and cloaks of many colors spread shall fail
below the snow-white tunics, cleansed of wrong
How shall this dirty spring of earth compare,
the dying blooms, e'en of the world in prime?
The glory of the coming summer where
We see the sun's orig'nal shine, sublime!
Have a happy (albeit snowy) Palm Sunday, everyone.