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.