But still they fare through the bitter air,
And climb a hill-slope now.

On Weary-All-Hill their feet they stay
(Full well that Hill ye know);
There may they rest, by toil oppressed,
While round them drops the snow.

And one--far gone in age was he--
As snow, his locks were white--
The staff of thorn which he had borne,
Did plant upon that height.

A thorn-stick dry, that pilgrim staff,
He set it in the ground:
And, swift as sight, with blossoms white
The branching staff was crowned!

Each year since then (if sooth men say)
Upon this Blessed Morn,
Who climbs that Hill, may see at will
The flower upon the thorn!

Howe'er the wind may drive the sleet,
That thorn will blooming be;
And some have seen a fair Child lean
From out that blossomed tree!

One moment only--then, apace,
Both flower and leaf are shorn;