Oh all you, who pass by, whose eyes and mind

To worldly things are sharp, but to me blind;

To me, who took eyes that I might you find:

Was ever grief like mine?

The Princes of my people make a head

Against their Maker: they do wish me dead,

Who cannot wish, except I give them bread;

Was ever grief like mine?

Without me each one, who does now me brave,

Had to this day been an Egyptian slave.

They use that power against me, which I gave:

Was ever grief like mine?

Mine own Apostle, who the bag did bear,

Though he had all I had, did not forbear

To sell me also, and to put me there:

Was ever grief like mine?

For thirty pence he did my death devise,

Who at three hundred did the ointment prize,

Not half so sweet as my sweet sacrifice:

Was ever grief like mine?

Therefore my soul melts, and my heart’s dear treasure

Drops blood (the only beads) my words to measure:

O let this cup pass, if it be your pleasure:

Was ever grief like mine?

These drops being tempered with sinners’ tears

A Balsam are for both the Hemispheres:

Curing all wounds, but mine; all, but my fears:

Was ever grief like mine?

Yet my Disciples sleep; I cannot gain

One hour of watching; but their drowsy brain

Comforts not me, and does my doctrine stain:

Was ever grief like mine?

Arise, arise, they come. Look how they run!

Alas! what haste they make to be undone!

How with their lanterns do they seek the sun!

Was ever grief like mine?

With clubs and staves they seek me, as a thief,

Who am the Way and Truth, the true relief;

Most true to those, who are my greatest grief:

Was ever grief like mine?