A poem by the 17th century Dutch poet Jacobus Revius

Hy droech onse smerten

T’en zijn de Joden niet, Heer Jesu, die u cruysten,

Noch die verradelijck u togen voort gericht,


Noch die versmadelijck u spogen int gesicht

Noch die u knevelden, en stieten u vol puysten,

T’en zijn de crijchs-luy niet die met haer felle vuysten

Den rietstock hebben of den hamer opgelicht,


Of het vervloeckte hout op Golgotha gesticht,


Of over uwen rock tsaem dobbelden en tuyschten:

Ick bent, ô Heer, ick bent die u dit heb gedaen,


Ick ben den swaren boom die u had overlaen,


Ick ben de taeye streng daermee ghy ginct gebonden,

De nagel, en de speer, de geessel die u sloech,


De bloet-bedropen croon die uwen schedel droech:

Want dit is al geschiet, eylaes! om mijne sonden.

He bore our sufferings

’Tis not the Jews, Lord Jesus, they who crucified you,

Nor those who treacherously dragged you to be tried,

Nor those who in your face did spit and you deride

Nor those who struck and pummelled, they who sorely tried you,

’Tis not the Roman soldiers made of you one martyred,

With rod or hammer in their grim fist held on high,

Or the cursed wood on Golgotha raised toward the sky,

Or for your clothes together tossed the dice and bartered:

’Tis I, O Lord, ’tis I who have done this to you,

I am the tree whose leaden load so well you knew,

I am the sturdy rope that on the cross once held you,

The nail, the spear am I, the scourge that you did score,

The bloodied crown of thorns that on your brow you wore:

For my sins are, alas, why all of this befell you.