The Cloisters: The Crucifix

Though by such thorns as on Thy brow abide,
Thine would Thy servant be — thorns from the weed
Of sorrow, whereof Adam sowed the seed ;
Thine by the spear that pierced Thy tender side,
Compunctuous throes, which drink the heart's deep tide ;
Thine by the nails, which made Thy pure hands bleed,—
Nails of stern discipline, rough arts that breed
Keen penitential yearnings, or the pride
Of the rude scoffing world ; by whate'er chain
May quell rebellion or of soul or eye,
Whatever penance schools of shame, or pain,
Whatever scourge may strike, and not in vain,
So bind me to Thy Cross, that I may die
Daily, the fleeting years that I remain.