Classic Poem

The head is launc'd to worke the bodie's cure,
With angring salve it smartes to heale our wounde;
To faltlesse Sonne, from all offences pure,
The falty vassall's scourges do redounde;
The judge is cast, the guilty to acquite,
The sonne defac'd, to lende the starre his lighte.

The Vine of life distilleth droppes of grace,
Our rock gives yssue to a heavenly springe;
Teares from His eyes, blood runnes from wounded place,
Which showers, to heaven, of joy a harvest bringe:
This sacred deaw let angells gather upp,
Such deynty droppes best fitt their nectared cupp.

With weeping eyes His mother reu'd His smart,
If bloode from Him, teares rann from her as fast;
The knife that cutt His fleshe did perce her hart,
The payne that Jesus felt did Marye tast;
His life and her's hunge by one fatall twiste,
No blowe that hitt the Sonne the mother miste.