Doth sickness hover o'er thy head,
In weakness art thou lying?
Behold upon the Cross's bed
Thy sick Physician dying;
No member in the holy frame
That there for thee must languish,
But what thy pride hath clothed with shame,—
But what thy sin, with anguish!
Have wealth and honour spread their wing
And left thee all unfriended?—
See naked on the Cross thy King,—
And thy regrets are ended:
The fox hath where to lay his head,
Her nest receives the sparrow:
Thy Monarch, for His latest bed,
One plank hath, hard and narrow!
Thy good name suffers from the tongue
Of slanderers and oppressors?
Jesus, as on the Cross He hung,
Was reckoned with transgressors!
More than the nails and than the spear
His sacred limbs assailing,
Judæa's children pierced His ear
With blasphemy and railing.
