But Thou art sad and dost not speak,
So sad and sorrowful art Thou;
Thine eyes are scarred, my eyes they seek,
And cruel marks have marred Thy brow.
Pleasure laid hands on me and mine,
She crowned my head with tangled vine,
Her arms about my neck lay bare;
I was constrained to kiss her there.
Yea, Thou hast suffered. This I tell
By those long wound-prints in Thy hands;