Indeed, you are a poor wretch
Up there for centuries,
Your hard head is made of linden1
God knows that is to be praised
Your Father is silent, the disciples too,
Your cross is in the ways,
is on graves as is the custom,
in the sun and in the rain,
Your arm is stiff, your head is tired,
You have wrung yourself out,
If I saw how everyone knelt before me,
I would have jumped down.
Piece of wood up there, old fool,
Why don't you come down?
What do you still want? Why are you looking numbly at all the new miracles?
The crown of thorns adorns your hair,
Your flesh has a thousand wounds,
Indeed they have tortured you for long enough.
Your arm is stiff, your head is tired,
You have wrung yourself out,
If I saw how everyone knelt before me,
I would have jumped down.
1. or basewood