Seasons of the Soul: The Sacrifice (3)

10th Station of the Cross - Jesus is stripped of His garments - Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain

THE SACRIFICE (3)
I answer nothing, but with patience prove
If stony hearts will melt with gentle love.
But who does hawk at eagles with a dove?
Was ever grief like mine.

My silence rather does augment their cry;
My dove does back into my bosom fly,
Because the raging waters still are high:
Was ever grief like mine.

Hear how they cry aloud still, Crucify:
It is not fit he live a day, they cry,
Who cannot live less than eternally:
Was ever grief like mine.

Pilate, a stranger, holdeth off; but they,
Mine own dear people, cry, Away, away,
With noises confused frighting the day:
Was ever grief like mine.

Yet still they shout, and cry, and stop their ears,
Putting my life among their sins and fears,
And therefore wish my blood on them and theirs:
Was ever grief like mine.

See how spite cankers things. These words aright
Used, and wished, are the whole world's light:
But honey is their gall, brightness their night:
Was ever grief like mine.

They choose a murderer, and all agree
In him to do themselves a courtesy:
For it was their own case who killéd me:
Was ever grief like mine.

And a seditious murderer he was:
But I the Prince of peace; peace that does pass
All understanding, more than heaven does glass:
Was ever grief like mine.

Why, Caesar is their only King, not I:
He split the stony rock, when they were dry;
But surely not their hearts, as I well try:
Was ever grief like mine.

Ah! how they scourge me! yet my tenderness
Doubles each lash: and yet their bitterness
Winds up my grief to a mysteriousness:
Was ever grief like mine.

They buffet him, and box him as they list,
Who grasps the earth and heaven with his fist,
And never yet, whom he would punish, missed:
Was ever grief like mine.

George Herbert