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.