Good Friday

At the Cross her station keeping,
stood the mournful Mother weeping,
close to her Son to the last

Through her heart, His sorrow sharing,
all His bitter anguish bearing,
now at length the sword has passed

O how sad and sore distressed
was that Mother, highly blest,
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?

By the Cross with thee to stay,
there with thee to weep and pray,
is all I ask of thee to give.

Christ, when Thou shalt call me hence,
be Thy Mother my defense,
be Thy Cross my victory;

While my body here decays,
may my soul Thy goodness praise,
Safe in Paradise with Thee.