Текст оригинала на английском языке
Rest in a friend's house, Dear, I pray: The way is long to Good Friday, And very chill and grey the way. No crocus with its shining cup, Nor the gold daffodil is up, -- Nothing is here save the snowdrop. Sit down with me and taste good cheer: Too soon, too soon, Thy Passion's here; The wind is keen and the skies drear. Sit by my fire and break my bread. Yea, from Thy dish may I be fed, And under Thy feet my hair spread! Lord, in the quiet, chill and sweet, Let me pour water for Thy feet, While the crowd goes by in the Street. Why wouldst Thou dream of spear or sword, Or of the ingrate rabble, Lord? There is no sound save the song of a bird. Let us sit down and talk at ease About Thy Father's business. (What shouts were those borne on the breeze?) Nay, Lord, it cannot be for Thee They raise the tallest cross of the three On yon dark Mount of Calvary! So soon, so soon, the hour's flown! The glory's dying: Thou art gone Out on Thy lonely way, alone.
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