On the Eve of His Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,

My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my good is but vain hope of gain;

My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun;

And now I live, and now my life is done.

[My tale was heard, and yet it was not told;

My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green;

My youth is spent and yet I am not old;

I saw the world and yet I was not seen;

My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun;

And now I live, and now my life is done.]

I sought my death and found it in the womb,

I looked for life and saw it was a shade,

I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,

And now I die and now I was but made;

My glass is full, and now my glass is run;

And now I live, and yet my life is done.