When I behold Thee, almost slain,
With one and all parts full of pain:
When I Thy gentle heart do see
Pierced through and dropping blood for me,
I’ll call, and cry out, thanks to Thee.
Vers. But yet it wounds my soul to think
That for my sin Thou, Thou must drink,
Even Thou alone, the bitter cup
Of fury and of vengeance up.
Chor. Lord, I’ll not see Thee to drink all
The vinegar, the myrrh, the gall:
Vers. Chor. But I will sip a little wine;
Which done, Lord, say: The rest is Mine.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.