Staining streaks across my face,
Grief-blurred eyes to Thee I raise,
Lifting up my sickened moan
Toward Thy likeness carved in stone.
Looking up, I think I see,
In the dim light, suddenly–
Hardly dare I speak for fear–
On Thy cheek is that a tear?
Sick and sad, my soul leaves blood
Staining everywhere I’ve stood;
Silent crying for the thorn
Tearing at this heart forlorn.
Lonely, cut from human aid,
Gaze I up, worn out, afraid,
Lo! the Hand raised over me
Sheds blood more profusély.
Know’st Thou, then, a grief like mine?
What deep anguish has been Thine?
Dost Thou know the voidish night,
Hours of bitter, silent fight?
Hast Thou known the stabbing woe
Of betrayed poor hearts below?
Thou hast felt it, I can see,
For Thou now weepest with me.