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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Legend Of The Crossbill. (From The German Of Julius Mosen)
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On the cross the dying Saviour 
  Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
  In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
  Sees he how with zealous care 
At the ruthless nail of iron 
  A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
  With its beak it doth not cease, 
From the cross `t would free the Saviour, 
  Its Creator`s Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness: 
  "Blest be thou of all the good! 
Bear, as token of this moment, 
  Marks of blood and holy rood!" 

And that bird is called the crossbill; 
  Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 
  Songs, like legends, strange to hear.
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