MEDIÆVAL HYMNS.
215
Look on the Head, with such a Crown
Of bitter thorns surrounded;
Look on the Blood that trickles down
The Feet and Hands thus wounded!
Let that frame thy tears engage,
Marking how Judæa's rage
And malice hath abounded.
But though upon Him many a smart
Its bitterness expendeth,
Yet more,—oh how much more!—His Heart
Man's thankless spirit rendeth!
On the Cross, bewailed by none,
Mark, O man, how Mary's Son
His life of sorrow endeth.
None ever bare such grief, alas,
None ever such affliction,
As when Judæa brought to pass
His bitter crucifixion:
He, that we might dwell on high,
Bare the pangs that made Him die
In oft-renewed infliction.
O therefore Satan's wiles repel,
And yield not to temptation!
Think on the woes that Christ befell
