The poem
Kill me not ev'ry day, Thou Lord of life, since thy one death for me Is more than all my deaths can be, Though I in broken pay Die over each hour of Methusalem's stay.
If all men's tears were let Into one common sewer, sea, and brine; What were they all, compar'd to thine? Wherein if they were set, They would discolour thy most bloody sweat.
Thou art my grief alone, Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art All my delight, so all my smart: Thy cross took up in one, By way of imprest, all my future moan.