Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing.
Hail, O bleeding Head and wounded, With a crown of thorns surrounded, Buffeted, and bruised and battered, Smote with reed by striking shattered, Face with spittle vilely smeared! Hail, whose visage sweet and comely, Marred by fouling stains and homely, Changed as to its blooming color, All now turned to deathly pallor, Making heavenly hosts affeared!bernard of clairvaux
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