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Stabat Mater


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 judgement 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.

 

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