A little anonymous poem of the same date, the last verse of which appears, from the metre, to be incomplete, surprises us by what seems to us the modern tone of its tender and passionate
LAMENT.
O wê des smerzen
Alas for my sorrow!
My heart is in pain;
Where is hope for the morrow
To whom now complain?
O God, take compassion
On me lying low,
And comfort, O comfort me,
Through Thine own woe.
Keenly regretful,
I call to my mind
How we are forgetful,
How He is so kind!
Who gladly, yet painfully,
Yielded His breath,
Only to ransom us
Ever from death.
Where shall I find Him,
Him dearest to me,
Who let His foes bind Him
That we might be free?