Forsaken Christ swallows wholly his pride, Or sour wine less pure than water or pain- Presently pierced, and now to poke again To drain the fountain living through his side. And women weeping hymns to him abide In agonizing ghosts that sound the strain- “Never ever after our Lord is slain Shall blood from water nourish ****** bride”. Full dead they take to tomb the suffered gent And women weeping there reflect how sweet The water went when he heard mother’s cries. And women weeping left the brood to treat The body, decked with spices and ointment To prepare rot- and say to him “arise”.