The pain in my heart is the same as the pain
Of a father whose son will look not at his face.
The fact that my sufferings all were in vain
Is a thousand times more than the pain I then faced.
What, for the love of His son will a father do
More than to lay himself at your feet, dead?
Is there a love of more kindness today than
The love that forgave all His murderous fiends?
Why, my dear son, will your eyes open not?
When did thy heart ever alter to stone?
When did my soul filled with love for thy sake
In a thousand years ever leave you in lone?
Answer me, son, let my ears hear your lies,
Face me, my dear, with your pile of deceit,
Puncture my heart yet again, if you wish,
With the sword of a hatred I long to delete.
The piercing of nails and the beating of whips,
Shall never come close to the pain I now feel
The pain in my heart is much more than the pain
Of a father whose son has forgotten of him.