To him the universe is but a span,
A world’s full ransom his one tear might be.
Not as we reckon outlay reckons he,
Until his boundless love has lavished all.
The knotted scourge precedes the fatal tree.
Couldst thou return him less, if he should call?
Or would the martyr’s palm thy coward soul appall?
III.
John xix. 5.
A crown of thorns for him, a crown of bays