At the Cross, her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother
weeping,
Where he hung the dying Lord;
For her soul, of joy
bereaved,
Bowed with anguish, deeply grieved,
Felt the sharp and piercing
sword.
O how sad and sore distressed
Now was she, that mother blessed
Of the
sole begotten One,
Deep the woe of her affliction,
When she saw the
crucifixion
Of her ever glorious Son.
Who, on Christ's dear mother gazing,
Pierced by anguish so
amazing,
Born of woman would not weep?
Who, on Christ's dear mother
thinking,
Such a cup of sorrow drinking,
Would not share her sorrows
deep?
For his people's sins chastised,
She beheld her Son despised,
Scourged
and crowned with thorns entwined;
Saw him then from judgment taken,
And
in death by all forsaken,
Till his spirit he resigned.
Jesus, may her deep devotion
Stir in me the same emotion,
Fount of
love, Redeemer kind,
That my heart, fresh ardor gaining
And a purer love
attaining,
May with thee acceptance find.