Why doth my Saviour weep
  At sight of Sion's bowers?
Shows it not fair from yonder steep,
  Her gorgeous crown of towers?
Mark well His holy pains:
  'Tis not in pride or scorn,
That Israel's King with sorrow stains
  His own triumphal morn.

It is not that His soul
  Is wandering sadly on,
In thought how soon at death's dark goal
  Their course will all be run,
Who now are shouting round
  Hosanna to their chief;
No thought like this in Him is found,
  This were a Conquerer's grief.

Or doth He feel the Cross
  Already in His heart,
The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss?
  Feel e'en His God depart?
No: though He knew full well
  The grief that then shall be -
The grief that angels cannot tell -
  Our God in agony.

It is not thus He mourns;
  Such might be martyr's tears,
When his last lingering look he turns
  On human hopes and fears;
But hero ne'er or saint
  The secret load might know,
With which His spirit waxeth faint;
  His is a Saviour's woe.

"If thou had'st known, e'en thou,
  At least in this thy day,
The message of thy peace! but now
  'Tis passed for aye away:
Now foes shall trench thee round,
  And lay thee even with earth,