Behold, Behold Your King!

No tramp of soldiers' marching feet

With banners and with drums,

No sound of music's martial beat:

"The King of Glory Comes!"

To gree what pomp of kingly pride

No bells in triumph ring,

No city gates swing open wide:

"Behold, behold your King!"

And yet He comes. The children cheer,

With palms HIs path is strown.

With ev'ry step the cross draws near:

The King of glory's thone.

Astride a colt He passes by

As loud hosannas ring,

Or else the very stones would cry

"Behold, behold your King!"

What fading flow'rs His road adorn,

The palms, how soon laid down!

No bloom or leaf, but only thorn

The King of glory's crown.

The soldiers mock, the rabble cry

The streets with tumult ring, 

As Pilate to the mob replies,

"Behold, behold your King!"

Now He who bore for mortals' sake

The cross and all its pains

And chose a servant's form to take,

The King of glory reigns.

Hosanna to the Savior's name

Till heaven's rafters ringm,

And all the ransomed host proclaim

"Behold, behold your King!"

-- Timothy Dudley-Smith (1926)