Christian, wouldst thou boast aright,
Deck thy brows with liv­ing light?
Twined above that al­tar’s horns,
Contemplate the crown of thorns:
Him, the ra­ther, love the more
Who for thee that thorn-crown wore.

This the King of Glo­ry bound
All His bleed­ing fore­head round;
With this hel­met on His head
Smote the foe of quick and dead;
Crowned with this tri­um­phant wreath
Plucked the thor­ny sting from death.

This the crest the fight to stem,
Pontiff’s on­ly dia­dem,
Only crown on earth to win,
In the bat­tle­field of sin,
Changed, the while that head they hold,
Crown of thorns to crowns of gold.

All those thorn-points, sharp and go­ry,
Touched by Him are rays of glo­ry,
In His Pass­ion’s cru­ci­fy­ing
Scorn no more, but praise un­dy­ing,
Twining ros­es for His tomb
Of an ama­ran­thine bloom.

Thorny ground with sweat of brow
Mingling in that la­bor now,
While the se­cond Ad­am toils,
All the earth of curse de­spoils;
Thorns, fit on­ly for the burn­ing,
To a wreath of ra­di­ance turn­ing.

Only good, and on­ly grand,
Jesus, strength of those that stand,
Only might of them that win,
Pluck from life the sting of sin;
From our work with bri­ers strown
Wreathe us an eter­nal crown!