HOW THE THORNS

Ah me! How the thorns
Have entangled Thy hair,
And cruelly riven
That forehead so fair;
How feebly Thou drawest
Thy faltering breath;
And lo, on Thy face
Is the shadow of death.

O Shepherd, good Shepherd!
And is it for me
This grievous affliction
Has fallen on Thee?
Ah, then let me strive,
For the love Thou hast borne,
To give Thee no longer
Occasion to mourn!