Stabat Mater

At the cross her station keeping

        Stood the mournful Mother weeping,

       Close to Jesus to the last.    

            Through her heart, his sorrows sharing,

All his bitter anguish bearing,     

                      Now at length the sword had passed.

Oh, how sad and sore distressed

Was that Mother highly blessed

   Of the sole begotten one!

Christ above in torment hangs,

She beneath beholds the pangs

       Of her dying, glorious Son.

      Is there one who would not weep,

 'Whelmed in miseries so deep,

                Christ's dear Mother to behold?

Can the human heart refrain

 From partaking in her pain,   

                 In that mother's pain untold?      

       Bruised, derided, cursed, defiled,

       She beheld her tender Child,        

             All with bloody scourges rent.

   For the sins of his own nation

Saw him hang in desolation

        Till his spirit forth he sent.