With sick and famish'd eyes

With sick and famished eyes,

With doubling knees, and weary bones,

To thee my cries,

To thee my groans,

to thee my sighs, my tears ascend:

No end?

My throat, my soul is hoarse;

My heart is wither'd like a ground

Which thou dost curse;

My thoughts turn round

And make me giddy: Lord, I fall,

Yet call.

Bowels of pity hear!

Lord of my soul, love of my mind,

Bow down thine ear!

Let not the wind

Scatter my words, and in the same

Thy name!

Look on my sorrows round;

Mark well my furnace!

O what flames,

What heats abound!

What griefs, what shames!

Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine ear,

And hear!

Lord Jesu, thou didst bow

Thy dying head upon the tree;

O be not now

More dead to me!

Lord, hear! Shall he that made the ear

Not hear?

Behold! Thy dust doth stir,

It moves, it creeps to thee;

Do not defer

To succour me,

Thy pile of dust wherein each crumb

Says "Come".

My love, my sweetness, hear!

By these thy feet, at which my heart

Lies all the year,

Pluck out thy dart,

And heal my troubled breast, which cries,

Which dies.