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.