Have, have ye no regard, all ye
Who pass this way, to pity me
Who am a man of misery?
A man both bruis’d, and broke, and one
Who suffers not here for mine own
But for my friends’ transgression?
Ah! Sion’s daughters, do not fear
The Cross, the Cords, the Nails, the Spear,
The Myrrh, the Gall, the Vinegar,
For Christ, your loving Savior, hath
Drunk up the wine of God’s fierce wrath;
Only, there’s left a little froth,
Less for to taste, than for to shew
What bitter cups had been your due,
Had He not drank them up for you.