Out the Damascus Gate it ran,
A weary, cheerless road
Along which stumbled once a Man,
A cross-tree for His load.
The street was teeming with the throng.
The air was chill and gray,
The hour when Jesus passed along
That Dolorosa Way.
It wound a slope that flung its height
Against a sullen sky.
Upon a summit--tragic sight--
Three crosses lifted high.
But lo, beyond them, manifold
The lifting glow of day.
It ended at the gates of gold,
That Dolorosa Way.