Praised.

No tramp of soldiers' marching feet
With banners and with drums
No sound of music's martial beat:
"The King of glory comes!"
To greet 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 throne
Astride a colt He passes by
As loud hosannas ring
Or else the very stones would cry
"Behold, behold your King!"

from "No Tramp of Soldiers' Marching Feet," v. 1 & 2