The Victor

Who cometh down the narrow street,
With such a quiet tread,
And walketh as a conqueror
With thorns around his head?

He bears no blossoming hawthorn bough
But just a naked tree,
And yet he moveth up the hill
As one to victory?

So silently he passes by
And no word ever saith?
It is sweet love—triumphantly
Gone forth to conquer death!

Enjoy 1 free Sentinel article or audio program each month, including content from 1898 to today.

We'd love to hear from you!

Easily submit your testimonies, articles, and poems online.

Submit