At the cross, her sta­tion keep­ing,
Stood the mourn­ful mo­ther weep­ing,
Where He hung, the dy­ing Lord;
For her soul of joy be­reav­èd,
Bowed with ang­uish, deep­ly griev­èd,
Felt the sharp and pierc­ing sword.

Oh, how sad and sore dis­tress­èd
Now was she, that mo­ther bless­èd
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 chas­tis­èd,
She be­held her Son des­pis­èd,
Scourged, and crowned with thorns en­twined;
Saw Him then from judg­ment taken,
And in death by all for­sak­en,
Till His Spir­it He re­signed.

Jesu, 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.