Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,

To thee of all kings onely due)

Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,

Who in all grief preventest me?

Shall I weep bloud? why thou hast wept such store

That all thy body was one doore.

Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?

’Tis but to tell the tale is told.

My God, my God, why dost thou part from me?

Was such a grief as cannot be.

Shall I then sing, skipping, thy dolefull storie,

And side with thy triumphant glorie?

Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower?

Thy rod, my posie? crosse, my bower?

But how then shall I imitate thee, and

Copie thy fair, though bloudie hand?

Surely I will reuenge me on thy love,

And trie who shall victorious prove.

If thou dost give me wealth; I will restore

All back unto thee by the poore.

If thou dost give me honour; men shall see,

The honour doth belong to thee.

I will not marry; or, if she be mine,

She and her children shall be thine.

My bosome friend, if he blaspheme thy name,

I will tear thence his love and fame.

One half of me being gone, the rest I give

Unto some Chappell, die or live.

As for thy passion — But of that anon,

When with the other I have done.

For thy predestination I'le contrive,

That three yeares hence, if I survive,

I'le build a spittle, or mend common wayes,

But mend mine own without delayes.

Then I will use the works of thy creation,

As if I us'd them but for fashion.

The world and I will quarrell; and the yeare

Shall not perceive, that I am here.

My musick shall finde thee, and ev'ry string

Shall have his attribute to sing;

That all together may accord in thee,

And prove one God, one harmonie.

If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appeare,

If thou hast giv'n it me, ‘tis here.

Nay, I will reade thy book, and never move

Till I have found therein thy love;

Thy art of love, which I'le turn back on thee,

O my deare Saviour, Victorie!

Then for thy passion – I will do for that –

Alas, my God, I know not what.