Classic Poem

I crawle, I creep; my Christ, I come
To Thee, for curing Balsamum:
Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the Tree,
Affording salve of Soveraigntie.
My mouth I'le lay unto Thy wound
Bleeding, that no Blood touch the ground:
For, rather then one drop shall fall
To wast, my Jesu, I'le take all.