Come all ye tender hearted Christians,
come join with me to weep and mourn,
To see the man of constant sorrow,
Abas’d forsaken, and forlorn.
The foxes they have holes prepared,
And birds of air have pleasant nests;
But Christ, the son of man, worse fared,
He had nowhere to go to rest.
Behold him in cold mountains praying,
He spent whole nights in pray’r and praise;
He was with grief and tears acquainted,
He went a mourner all his days.
Behold him in the garden lying,
His souls in floods of sorrow drown’d,
And the large bloody sweat a running
In trickling drops down to the ground.
