Dear Mother, for his love’s sake bid me stay.
He calls: “I thirst.” Ah! offer him my tears
Repentance hath made pure of all their gall.
Tell him, who nothing has would offer all,
But yet to bring the gift unworthy fears,
Lest so some added thorn be wreathed within
The crown wherewith the wounded brow is bound,
The mocking people’s sovereignty’s round
That saints, with joy, shall lose all life to win.
Mother, thy Son gives me in thy fond care: