Beside him lies a mortified mind,
That often fears the thought of death,
And how his very hair burns with
The fiery reeking of himself;
--
He thought he was crucified and had died,
But true there was no lotion to strew
His wounds withal, but only death,
And a horrible cry still and strange as air
Was heard from his silent lips, "Curses, curses, curses!"
--
'There, O my head, too long a wound and a bitter sleep,
You wrack my brow and broken it on your breast,
The last and the worst that I bear,
And all my may pains do not bear me away.
'O bring me no rest and no rest in misery
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