accuse me of great blasphemie,
That I did thrust into the Deitie,
Who never thought that any robberie:
Was ever grief like mine?
Some said, that I the Temple to the floore
In three days raz’d, and raised as before.
Why, he that built the world can do much more:
Was ever grief like mine?
Then they condemne me all with that same breath,
Which I do give them daily, unto death.
Thus Adam my first breathing rendereth:
Was ever grief like mine?
They binde, and leade me unto Herod: he
Sends me to Pilate. This makes them agree;
But yet their friendship is my enmitie.
Was ever grief like mine?
Herod and all his bands do set me light,
Who teach all hands to warre, fingers to fight,
And onely am the Lord of hosts and might.
Was ever grief like mine?
Herod in judgment sits, while I do stand;
Examines me with a censorious hand:
I him obey, who all things else command:
Was ever grief like mine?
The Jews accuse me with despitefulnesse;
And vying malice with my gentlenesse,
Pick quarrels with their onely happinesse:
Was ever grief like mine?
I answer nothing, but with patience prove
If stonie hearts will melt with gentle love.
But who does hawk at eagles with a dove?
Was ever grief like mine?
My silence rather doth augment their crie;
My dove doth back into my bosome flie,
Because the raging waters still are high:
Was ever grief like mine?
Hark how they cry aloud still, Crucifie:
It is not Jit he live a day, they crie,
Who cannot live lesse than eternally:
Was ever grief like mine?
Pilate a stranger holdeth off; but they,
Mine own deare people, cry, Away, away,
With noises confused frighting the day:
Was ever grief like mine?
Yet still they shout, and crie, and stop their eares,
Putting my life among their sinnes and feares,
And therefore wish my bloud on them and theirs:
Was ever grief like mine?
See how spite cankers things. These words aright
Used, and wished, are the whole world’s light:
But honey is their gall, brightnesse their night:
Was ever grief like mine?
They choose a murderer, and ail agree
In him to do themselves a courtesie;
For it was their own cause who killed me:
Was ever grief like mine?
And a seditious murderer he was:
But I the Prince of Peace; peace that doth passe
All understanding, more than heav’n doth glasse:
Was ever grief like mine?
Why, Cesar is their onely king, not I:
He clave the stonie rock, when they were drie;
But surely not their hearts, as I will trie:
Was ever grief like mine?
Ah! how they scourge me! yet my tendernesse
Doubles each lash: and yet their bitternesse
Windes up my grief to a mysteriousnesse:
Was ever grief like mine?
They buffet me, and box me as they list,
Who grasp the earth and heaven with my fist,
And never yet, whom I would punish, miss’d:
Was ever grief like mine?
Behold, they spit on me in scornfull wise;
Who by my spittle gave the blinde man eies,
Leaving his blindnesse to mine enemies:
Was ever grief like mine?
My face they cover, though it be divine.
As Moses face was vailed, so is mine,
Lest on their double-dark souls either shine:
Was ever grief like mine?
Servants and abjects flout me; they are wittie:
Now prophesie who strikes thee, is their dittie.
So they in me denie themselves all pitie:
Was ever grief like mine?
And now I am deliver’d unto death,
Which each one cals for so with utmost breath,
That he before me well-nigh suflereth:
Was ever grief like mine?
Weep not, deare friends, since I for both have wept
When all
