I cannot touch the wood, the rusted nails,
Which held my Love until He lived no more
For me, and seeking them in penance fails
To bring me near His side, or to restore
My eyes with cleansing tears; some piety
May make the holy weep their weaknesses,
But I am hoarse from my iniquity
And calloused by the scourge of penances
I've never paid, and I no longer groan
To see those bloody stains; but hide me there
Beside You, Virgin Mother, for Your own
Tears I still comprehend, for none can bear
Your grief unmerited, be he so lost,
Or stand unmoved at your unbloody cost.
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