Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Legend of the Crossbill

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