Death, where art thou, that a grave
Freely givest unto all ?
I now woo thee,
And in this great sorrow have
That thou hearest not my call
Who cry to thee.
For since, anguish-vexed, my soul,
By my grief and sadness smitten,
Is to joy dead,
Rent in pieces be the scroll
Whereon all my days are written,
And consumed !