When for the thorns with which I long, too long,
With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour’s head have crowned,
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong:
Through every garden, every mead,
I gather flow’rs (my fruits are only flow’rs),
Dismantling all the fragrant tow’rs
That once adorned my shepherdess’s head.
And now when I have summed up all my store,
Thinking (so I myself deceive)
So rich a chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the King of Glory wore:
Alas, I find the serpent old
That, twining in his speckled breast,
About the flow’rs disguised does fold,
With wreaths of fame and interest.
Ah, foolish man, that would’st debase with them,
And mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem!
But Thou who only could’st the serpent tame,
Either his slipp’ry knots at once untie;
And disentangle all his winding snare;
Or shatter too with him my curious frame,
And let these wither, so that he may die,
Though set with skill and chosen out with care:
That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread,
May crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.