  OH what have I to do with thee, Thou pallid, pallid crucifix? My sins are past all memory, My soul fit only for the Styx. Oh what have I to do with thee, Hanging so limp and stark and cold? To whom the world in revelry Looks up ere quickly it grows old. Oh what have I to do with thee? The bloody sweat from off thy brow Bears witness of thy death for me, Who am so thankless to thee now. Oh what have I to do with thee, Thou death-pale Christ still fresh with youth, Drooping thy head in agony And anguish for the name of truth? Oh what have I to do with thee, Thou pierced by nail and bruised by thong? Yet spare me in my misery, For I am weak whilst thou art strong. |
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