All have cometh to mourn

Thine blood that hath been spilt

Upon your head lieth a crown of thorn

And thine body spread across the Cross they hath built

 

Thine scarlet blood floweth steadily as a riv’r

from thine hands and thine chest,

And all those who look upon this tradegy shall shiv’r

And joylessly obs’rve as ye are laid to rest.