Christ's Suffering.

We merit all we suffer, and by far
More stripes than God lays on the sufferer.

Have, have ye no regard, all ye
Who pass this way, to pity Me,
Who am a man of misery!

A man both bruis'd, and broke, and one
Who suffers not here for Mine own,
But for My friends' transgression!

Ah! Sion's daughters, do not fear
The cross, the cords, the nails, the spear,
The myrrh, the gall, the vinegar;

For Christ, your loving Saviour, hath
Drunk up the wine of God's fierce wrath;
Only there's left a little froth,

Less for to taste than for to show
What bitter cups had been your due,
Had He not drank them up for you.

Christ was not sad, i' th' garden, for His own
Passion, but for His sheep's dispersion.

God ne'er afflicts us more than our desert,
Though He may seem to overact His part:
Sometimes He strikes us more than flesh can bear;
But yet still less than grace can suffer here.

To all our wounds here, whatsoe'er they be,
Christ is the one sufficient remedy.

For all our works a recompence is sure;
'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.