Now then, my soul, arouse thee; shake thee from the dust, and with fixed and earnest look gaze on this memorable Man, whom thou seest veritably present, as it were, by the mirror of the gospel story. Look, my soul, and tell me who, who is He? He walks in majesty and with all the bearing of a king, and yet laden with contempt like some poor slave, and covered with confusion. He walks in majesty, and His Head is encircled with a crown; but O, the crown of His is torture, and pierces at a thousand points that goodly brow of His. He is clad like a king, in purple, but O, it is all for despite, not for honor. He carries a scepter in His Hand but only that His sacred Head may be smitten with it. They bend the knee to earth and worship Him, they all proclaim Him King; and, see, forthwith they fly upon Him, spit upon His cheeks, beat His jaws with the palms of their hands, and rain dishonors on His royal neck. Look, look again, and see how this Man of men is hard bested, is spit upon, is spurned. He is bidden to bow His back beneath the burden of a heavy cross, and carry His own instrument of shame. Led out to the place He is given myrrh and gall to drink; He is lifted up upon the cross, saying as He rises, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’ (Luke 23:34). Who, who, and what is this that, for all He was so oppressed, opened not His mouth even once to utter word of complaint, of excuse, or threatening, or malediction, against the dogs that encompassed Him, and at last breathed on His enemies a word of benediction such as the world had never heard from its foundation. What hast thou ever seen, O my soul, more gentle, or more kind and tender, than this Man? But look, look still, pay greater heed to Him; for now He appears worthy of boundless wonder as of tenderest pity. See Him, all naked and scarred with stripes, fastened with iron nails to the cross between two thieves, and even after death wounded in the side with a lance, and pouring forth bountiful rivers of Blood from the five wounds of Hands, of Feet, of Side. Weep tears, O eyes of mine; melt, melt, my heart, with fires of compassion for that Man of love, so bruised, and crushed, and battered with griefs so dire, for all that His was a tenderness so sweet. 

Meditations And Prayers - Anselm