When of every joy bereft,
Nought but broken idols left,
Lone we lie upon the earth,
Strangers long to thought of mirth;
Then we’ll sigh though weeping on,
—“Christon Estaurōmenon!”
Bleeds our heart the world to see,
Chained by guilt in misery;
We would heal our brother’s woes,
Break his fetters, bind his foes: