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This crosstree here

Doth Jesus bear,

Who sweet’ned first

The death accurs’d.

Here all things ready are, make haste, make haste away;

For long this work will be, and very short this day.

Why then, go on to act: here’s wonders to be done

Before the last least sand of Thy ninth hour be run;

Or ere dark clouds do dull or dead the mid-day’s sun.

Act when Thou wilt,

Blood will be spilt;

Pure balm, that shall

Bring health to all.

Why then, begin

To pour first in

Some drops of wine,

Instead of brine,

To search the wound

So long unsound:

And, when that’s done,

Let oil next run

To cure the sore

Sin made before.

And O! dear Christ,

E’en as Thou di’st,

Look down, and see

Us weep for Thee.

And tho’, love knows,

Thy dreadful woes

We cannot ease,

Yet do Thou please,

Who mercy art,

T’ accept each heart

That gladly would

Help if it could.

Meanwhile let me,

Beneath this tree,

This honour have,

To make my grave.