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A little anonymous poem of the same date, the last verse of which appears, from the metre, to be incomplete, surprises us by what seems to us the modern tone of its tender and passionate


O wê des smerzen

Alas for my sorrow!

My heart is in pain;

Where is hope for the morrow

To whom now complain?

O God, take compassion

On me lying low,

And comfort, O comfort me,

Through Thine own woe.

Keenly regretful,

I call to my mind

How we are forgetful,

How He is so kind!

Who gladly, yet painfully,

Yielded His breath,

Only to ransom us

Ever from death.


Where shall I find Him,

Him dearest to me,

Who let His foes bind Him

That we might be free?

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