Softly I wept at first, then gathering force,
Burst forth a storm of passionate remorse,
Till my frail couch shook like an autumn leaf
In the tempestuous torrent of my grief.
Stretching my trembling hands, “O Christ!” I cried,
“Would that with thee I might be crucified,
So I might share thy love. O let me find
Some sure retreat remote from all my kind,
Far from the voice of priest or minister,
Where reigns the silence of the sepulchre;