Selected Works - George Herbert

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      Was ever grief like mine?

      The Priests and rulers all false witnesse seek

      ’Gainst him, who seeks not life, but is the meek

      And readie Paschal Lambe of this great week:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Then they accuse me of great blasphemie,

      That I did thrust into the Deitie,

      Who never thought that any robberie:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Some said, that I the Temple to the floore

      In three days raz’d, and raised as before.

      Why, he that built the world can do much more:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Then they condemne me all with that same breath,

      Which I do give them daily, unto death.

      Thus Adam my first breathing rendereth:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      They binde, and leade me unto Herod: he

      Sends me to Pilate. This makes them agree;

      But yet their friendship is my enmitie.

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Herod and all his bands do set me light,

      Who teach all hands to warre, fingers to fight,

      And onely am the Lord of hosts and might.

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Herod in judgment sits, while I do stand;

      Examines me with a censorious hand:

      I him obey, who all things else command:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      The Jews accuse me with despitefulnesse;

      And vying malice with my gentlenesse,

      Pick quarrels with their onely happinesse:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      I answer nothing, but with patience prove

      If stonie hearts will melt with gentle love.

      But who does hawk at eagles with a dove?

      Was ever grief like mine?

      My silence rather doth augment their crie;

      My dove doth back into my bosome flie,

      Because the raging waters still are high:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Hark how they cry aloud still, Crucifie:

      It is not Jit he live a day, they crie,

      Who cannot live lesse than eternally:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Pilate a stranger holdeth off; but they,

      Mine own deare people, cry, Away, away,

      With noises confused frighting the day:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Yet still they shout, and crie, and stop their eares,

      Putting my life among their sinnes and feares,

      And therefore wish my bloud on them and theirs:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      See how spite cankers things. These words aright

      Used, and wished, are the whole world’s light:

      But honey is their gall, brightnesse their night:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      They choose a murderer, and ail agree

      In him to do themselves a courtesie;

      For it was their own cause who killed me:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      And a seditious murderer he was:

      But I the Prince of Peace; peace that doth passe

      All understanding, more than heav’n doth glasse:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Why, Cesar is their onely king, not I:

      He clave the stonie rock, when they were drie;

      But surely not their hearts, as I will trie:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Ah! how they scourge me! yet my tendernesse

      Doubles each lash: and yet their bitternesse

      Windes up my grief to a mysteriousnesse:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      They buffet me, and box me as they list,

      Who grasp the earth and heaven with my fist,

      And never yet, whom I would punish, miss’d:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Behold, they spit on me in scornfull wise;

      Who by my spittle gave the blinde man eies,

      Leaving his blindnesse to mine enemies:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      My face they cover, though it be divine.

      As Moses face was vailed, so is mine,

      Lest on their double-dark souls either shine:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Servants and abjects flout me; they are wittie:

      Now prophesie who strikes thee, is their dittie.

      So they in me denie themselves all pitie:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      And now I am deliver’d unto death,

      Which each one cals for so with utmost breath,

      That he before me well-nigh suflereth:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Weep not, deare friends, since I for both have wept

      When all my tears were bloud, the while you slept:

      Your tears for your own fortunes should be kept:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      The souldiers lead me to the common hall;

      There they deride me, they abuse me all:

      Yet for twelve heav’nly legions I could call:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Then with a scarlet robe they me aray;

      Which shews my bloud to be the onely way

      And cordiall left to repair man’s decay:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      Then on my head a crown of thorns I wear;

      For these are all the grapes Sion doth bear,

      Though I my vine planted and watred there:

      Was ever grief like mine?

      So sits the earth’s great curse in Adam’s fall

      Upon my head; so I remove it all

      From th’ earth unto my brows, and bear the thrall:

      Was ever grief like mine?

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